


Barefoot Through Broken Thorns

by lbswasp



Series: Elegance Cannot Kill a Man [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Affection, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Braavosi, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Joffrey is his own warning, Misunderstandings, No Actual Adultery, Sansa is smart, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Such a slow burn, gratuitous princess bride references, so many misunderstandings, the slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-03-13 00:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 57,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13558698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbswasp/pseuds/lbswasp
Summary: After the Battle of Blackwater, Sansa grows strong among the thorns: coping with a moping husband, the arrival of Margaery Tyrell, and being thrust into the spotlight when visitors from the Iron Bank arrive. But why does Tyrion think she's sleeping with someone else? And why has a drunk just given her a cheap necklace?This retelling of Seasons 3 and 4 features a Sansa who is smarter than she lets on, a Varys with a plan, and a Tyrion who has no idea how to deal with women. Particularly this woman.Betaed by the wonderfulbrookebond.





	1. Growing Strong

**Author's Note:**

> And I'm back! A whole new adventure, new challenges, new characters...
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S03E01 ‘Valar Dohaeris’.

Tyrion could hear the sounds of battle ringing in his ears. The slash of swords, the cries of the dying, the screams of the horses as their legs were cut from under them. The sound of the explosion and the fire. The smell. Oh Gods, the smell. The smell of flesh melting under the wildfire. The smell of piss and shit as men died with great gasping cries.

Everywhere he looked there was fire and confusion and pain.

Pain.

Pain all around him.

Around his face.

He looked around at the chaos surrounding him again. Then he opened his eyes and woke from the nightmare.

His vision was blurry and he couldn’t see out of one eye, but he could make out a white-haired old man leaning over him. Blinking until his vision cleared, Tyrion soon saw it was Grand Maester Pycelle.

“Pod,” rasped Tyrion, coughing as he formed the words through his dry throat. “Pod!” he tried again, this time louder.

The boy must have been near, as with the second cry he pushed the door open and rushed into the room.

“Find Bronn. Or Varys,” ordered Tyrion. “Tell them I’m here with Maester Pycelle. Tell them I’m very much alive.”

“Yes my Lord,” said Pod. “Shall I tell the Lady Sansa as well?”

Tyrion froze. “No,” he croaked, pain erupting over his face. “I don't want her to see me like this. It might give the poor girl more nightmares.”

“Yes my Lord,” repeated Pod as he quickly exited the room.

“Would you like something for the pain?” wheezed Pycelle, reaching for the bandages wrapped around Tyrion’s face and covering one eye.

Tyrion recoiled and batted his hand away. “Tell me what happened.”

“The murderer and traitor Stannis Baratheon suffered a stunning defeat at the hand of your father a sennight ago.”

Tyrion nodded, then winced in pain. “Where am I?”

“These are your new chambers,” announced Pycelle with relish. “A little cramped, perhaps, but you don’t need much room do you?” Pycelle’s voice had lost the tremble it normally had. He sounded much too pleased with himself — and much too much like Tywin for Tyrion’s comfort. “You are no longer Hand of the King.”

Pycelle walked towards the door, satisfaction showing in the line of his spine. Just as he reached the door he stopped and turned back. “Oh.”

He extracted a gold cold from his robes. “For your trouble.”

He flicked it at Tyrion and left the room, stooping back into his habitual shuffle as he did so.

Tyrion looked around the small, dark room. He had fallen far indeed.

 

* * *

 

Sansa watched from the colonnade as Joffrey made his grandfather Hand of the King. She paid close attention, trying to work out as much as she could from the man she’d heard so much about. He was tall and gaunt, yet commanded considerable power. She wondered why he had ridden his horse into the Throne Room — it was an odd stylistic choice. The white mare was liberally draped with gold — and were those gold horseshoes on its hooves?

“That horse was imported from Essos at great expense,” whispered Lady Cerelle. “He always uses it when he wants to remind nobles he’s visiting that he can afford to buy anything from anywhere.”

Sansa was surrounded by the Westerladies once again. They had stuck closely together since the Battle of Blackwater, especially since Sansa had been moved into rooms in Maidenvault alongside them. Once they had been released from Maegor’s Holdfast, Sansa had led them in aiding the Maesters with the wounded. They had fetched water, held dying men’s hands, crushed poultices and helped wrap wounds. Some of the braver ladies, Sansa included, had been drafted into helping to sew wounds. It was very different from sewing cloth. Sansa still had nightmares about it.

A bright moment had come when Lady Alysanne’s beloved, Ser Addam Serrett, had come to find her. His collarbone had been shattered by a mace, and he was resting in King’s Landing until it healed enough for him to ride back to the Army. Since then, they had been inseparable — he’d followed her around as she’d helped minister to the wounded, and walked with her in the garden every day. He was standing with the ladies in the colonnade today, Lady Alysanne’s hand resting on his uninjured arm.

 _They are really quite sweet,_ thought Sansa. _Even if being around them for too long gives me a toothache._ Whenever she’d wanted a break from either tending to the wounded or from Lady Alysanne and Ser Addam’s sweetness, she’d gone to sit with Tyrion, waiting for him to wake up. She couldn’t understand why they’d been put in different chambers, but his sick room was closer to the Maesters, so maybe that was it. Even the Red Keep was finding it hard to find quarters for both the Lannister and Tyrell armies — and half the Lannister army was still apparently at Harrenhal under the command of the Mountain.

Once Tyrion was awake, Sansa hoped they would be able to move into chambers together. She found she missed his company — the soft noises of him turning pages while reading or drinking before bed, his sleepy confusion first thing in the morning, hearing about the challenges he’d faced as Hand each day. He always had a quip or a joke ready to help brighten her day, and she missed him more than she thought possible considering the circumstances surrounding their marriage. He was an odd little man, her husband, but she was becoming fond of him. He was very kind, and she thought he'd be proud of her actions soothing the ladies in Maegor’s Holdfast and helping with the wounded. She was proud of his efforts to defend the city. She hoped he was proud of her too. His opinion mattered to her. She might not love her husband, but he was important to her.

The laughter of the Court to some jest from Lord Baelish broke her out of her thoughts in time to see the King call Ser Loras forward.

The handsome young knight knelt before the Throne.

“Your House has come to our aid,” stated Joffrey. “The whole Realm is in your debt, none more so than I. If your family would ask anything of me, ask and it shall be yours.”

“Your Grace,” replied Ser Loras. “My sister Margaery, her husband was taken from us before...” He gulped and looked down. “She remains innocent,” he finished.

The King leaned forward, clearly interested in what the brave golden-haired knight was saying.

“I would ask your Grace if you could find it in your heart to do us the great honour of joining our Houses,” said Ser Loras as he looked up at the King.

“Is this what you want, Lady Margaery?” The King asked the young woman in a scandalously low-cut dress.

“With all my heart, your Grace,” she replied as she glided forward. Her voice was perfectly pitched to carry around the Throne Room so all could hear how lovely it was, while her stride managed to be both modest and seductive simultaneously. “I have come to love you from afar. Tales of your courage and wisdom have never been far from my ears, and those tales have taken root deep inside of me.”

“Damn, she’s good,” muttered Lady Cerelle as the King was visibly affected by Margaery’s words.

“Well, you know the stories about her grandmother,” said Lady Joanna in a whisper. “The rose of Highgarden clearly doesn’t fall far from the vine.”

Sansa and the Westerladies giggled softly as Joffrey started to pay outrageous compliments to Lady Margaery who blushed daintily and shyly bowed her head.

“As I am no longer betrothed, I am free to heed my heart,” he concluded. “Ser Loras, I will gladly wed your sweet sister. You will be my Queen, and I will love you from this day, until my last.”

The court broke into applause and Lady Margaery beamed a lovely, sunny smile at the King. As the audience broke up to leave the hall, Sansa saw Lady Margaery look directly at her. Sansa gently inclined her head, a sad smile on her lips. She could only hope that the King was kinder to Margaery than he had been to her — she did not envy the other girl in the slightest.

Sansa noticed Pod scuttle into the Throne Room and whisper with Lord Varys, who then left at a rapid pace. Had something happened to Tyrion? Sansa made to follow them, slipping through the milling crowd of nobles all eagerly discussing the newly proposed royal union.

“Lady Sansa!” Lord Baelish interrupted her progress. “A moment, please.”

He pulled her into a secluded alcove. “What did you make of that?”

Sansa offered up a smile. “Lady Margaery seems like a wonderful girl. I’m sure she will love the King as much as I once loved the King.”

“He may love her, but that doesn’t mean he won’t enjoy beating you. And hurting you in other ways as well. Especially once you flower.”

“But...he’s not marrying me. I’m married to his uncle!”

“Your husband is no longer Hand, Lady Sansa. No one has seen him since the Battle. There are rumours he has gone to meet the Gods.”

“No, I’ve seen him! He’s still very much alive my Lord.”

“Your loyalty does you credit, my Lady. You have a tender heart, just as your mother did at your age.” He placed his hand on her arm and Sansa fancied she could feel the coldness of his grip through the layers of fabric between them. “I see so much of her in you. She was like a sister to me. For her sake...I’ll help get you home to your family.”

Sansa wasn’t sure how to react. Her eyes searched his, but they gave away nothing. He wasn’t displaying any of the liars’ signs Varys had taught her to look for, but then again, Littlefinger was known to be a master liar. Was he serious in his offer? Or was this a trap? If she trusted him, would he double-cross her and deliver her back to the King?

“This is where my husband is,” she said, tilting her head up with defiance. “This is where my family is. King’s Landing is my home.”

He chuckled. “Look around you, tender heart. Everyone here is a liar, and they are all better at it than you.”

She pulled herself back from his grasp. “I am Lady Lannister. And that is no lie.”

She whirled out of the alcove and left the colonnade at a fast walk. She had the urgent sense that she needed to see Tyrion, right now, to assure herself that he was still alive.

 

* * *

 

“Ah, Lord Tyrion,” said Varys as Pod let him into the room. “A little bird told me you were awake.”

“Varys, good of you to come. Please, sit — I have a question to ask of you.”

Varys sat and folded his hands neatly on his lap.

The pain made him blunter than he usually was. “Who ordered Ser Mandon to kill me on the battlefield?”

“What makes you so sure he was killing you on orders?”

“I knew Ser Mandon. He was a decent enough Kingsguard but had no brains, no initiative. Nor any reason to try and kill me — I never gambled with him, nor screwed his sister. Someone had to have ordered him to do it.”

Varys nodded his head, slowly. “You’re right. He was acting on orders.”

“Whose orders?”

Varys sighed unhappily. “Your sister’s.”

“Why should I believe you?” asked Tyrion as he struggled into a seated position.

“Why would I lie about it?” asked Varys in return.

“To create strife between my sister and me.”

“Where before there was nothing but love,” snarked Lord Varys. “Ser Mandon Moore tried to kill you on your sister’s orders. If it weren’t for your squire’s bravery, you’d be a dead man.”

Tyrion shifted so he could see his squire better. “Pod.”

“Yes, my Lord,” said the young man as he moved forward.

“Would it be excessive of me to ask you to save my life twice in a sennight?”

Pod smiled. “No, my Lord.”

“You’re a good lad. Get Bronn, and tell him I want four of his most loyal Goldcloaks outside my door at all times.”

Pod bowed his head and moved towards the door when he was stopped by Varys lifting his hand. “I’m afraid your friend has been relieved of his command of the City Watch. The Goldcloaks are now firmly in the hands of your father. Or your sister. It varies from cloak to cloak.”

Tyrion shut his eyes. The loss of the Goldcloaks was a blow — his Hillmen didn’t like being inside the Red Keep but if they were all he had left, he’d use them.

“Then my Hillmen —”

“Have gone home,” interrupted Varys. “Your father paid them quite handsomely.”

Tyrion pressed his lips together to prevent a whimper from escaping and turned to look out the window as much as he could. His guards were gone. All of them. His sister was trying to kill him, and all he had for protection was Bronn and Pod. They weren’t enough — Pod hadn’t any training with anything other than a bow.

“I’m afraid we won’t be seeing each other for some time, my Lord,” continued Varys in a gentle tone.

“Don’t want to swim too close to a man drowning in shit?” Tyrion couldn’t blame Varys. He’d avoid him too if he had the option. It was bad enough being a dwarf, but a scarred dwarf? If he still visited whores, Tyrion reckoned their price would triple to get them to fuck him as he now looked. “And I thought we were friends,” he jibed, hoping to hide the hurt.

“We are,” said Varys as he stood. “But friends from a distance for now. There are many who know that without you, this city faced certain defeat. The King won’t give you any honours, nor will your father. The histories won’t mention you. But we will not forget.” He bowed deeply and walked to the door.

A gentle knock startled the room’s occupants, and they all looked as the door inched open and Sansa peeked around the side of it. Her face brightened on seeing them all together.

“I thought I heard voices. My Lord, you’re awake!” she said with a smile.

Sansa slipped fully into the room, dipping a small curtsey to Lord Varys as she passed him to reach Tyrion. He tried to hide his face from her by turning so his back faced the room. He heard Varys tell Pod to leave them and the door shut.

He was alone with his wife.

 

* * *

 

Sansa was thrilled to see Lord Tyrion awake. Even if Lord Baelish had said Lord Tyrion could no longer protect her since he was no longer the Hand, she still felt safer knowing he was awake. She went to put her hand on his shoulder, wondering why he was turned away from her, but when she touched him he flinched away and she rapidly withdrew her hand.

“My Lord, are you in much pain?”

“It was good of you to come,” muttered her husband, still refusing to look at her.

“Good of me? You’re my husband, of course I came! I’ve visited every day.” Sansa couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t look at her.

“Are you in much pain?” she repeated. “Do you need your bandages changed?”

She gently pulled on his shoulder until he rolled onto his back, then reached for his bandages to check them. He flinched away from her again.

“Stop. You don’t need to see what’s under here.”

“I don’t need to see your face? My Lord, I’ve been here when the Maesters have changed your bandages in the past. I’m fairly sure that current set are some of the ones made from my own sheets. I want to see how the healing is going.”

“So you’re a healer now, are you?” Tyrion muttered angrily. Sansa couldn’t understand why he was being so upset. _He must be in more pain than we realised,_ she thought. _It's making him snappish. Perhaps I should see if a Maester can give him some milk of the poppy to help with the pain._

“No, but some of the ladies and I have been helping out since the battle,” she said patiently. “There are many injured and we are doing what we can to help. Lady Genna is a natural with bandages, Lady Cersei is skilled with herbs and poultices, and I help where I can. My mother, whatever else she's done, didn't raise me to sit idly by when I can lend a hand, my Lord.”

He still refused to look at her but didn’t stop her as she leant forward and unwrapped the bandage from around his head. He stayed perfectly still until the last layer caught on the raw flesh of his face. Sansa carefully eased that away, revealing the large gash across Tyrion’s face.

Once the bandage was off, she carefully tilted his head towards the meager light from the window so she could check the progress of the healing.

“Well?” he bit out.

“It’s healing well, I think. I can’t see any puss or other signs of infection. I want to get a Maester to look it over, but I think you’ll live,” she smiled. “Which is good, as I’m not ready to become a widow just yet.”

“It would be better for you if you were,” he grunted.

“My Lord, why would you say that? Why would you wish yourself dead?”

“Pass me a mirror.”

Confused, Sansa fetched a small mirror from the far side of the room and passed it to Lord Tyrion. He took one look at his reflection and let out an angry yell, flinging the mirror across the room where it smashed against the wall. “Fuck!”

Sansa shrieked and froze in shock as he grabbed the cup from beside his table and threw that as well; the pitcher of wine following soon after. Out of things to throw, he tipped the table over.

Sansa had never see Tyrion erupt like this. She’d seen him so drunk he couldn’t stand, and so furious with Joffrey that his voice had been little more than a cold hiss, but never a rage like this.

“LEAVE!” he shouted, pulling at his hair as tears streamed down his face. “You should leave. Leave me. Leave before I ruin you too.”

Sansa busied herself with picking up the larger bits of glass. “My Lord, you’re hurt. And you’re hurting. But I am not the person you are angry with, and you will not shout at me like that.” She came over and righted the table before sitting beside him on the bed.

She gently pulled his hands from his hair and wrapped her arms around him. “Hush, Tyrion, hush,” she said as she gently rocked him. Gradually, his sobs tapered off, and Sansa judged he would no longer strike out. She pulled back and carefully wiped his face with the bandages she had just taken from his face, then reached for his hands. “Did you know, it’s been a year since we were married?”

Tyrion tried to pull his hands from her grip but she held firm. “Already? It feels as if it only happened yesterday. So much has changed.”

“It has, hasn’t it? My Lord, we were married in the sight of Gods and men. Have I displeased you?”

“No?”

“Have I, to your knowledge, dishonoured my vows?”

“No.”

“Then why do you want to set me aside?”

“Because you deserve more than to be married to an ugly, scarred dwarf.”

“Do I? I’m the daughter and sister of traitors. To many here, being married to you is an appropriate humiliation. How did I hear one courtier describe us? ‘The demon monkey and the traitor’s daughter.’ But I refuse to see it like that. I know you, my Lord. I’ve been your wife this last year and you have treated me with more kindness and respect than anyone I have encountered here at court. You have more honour in your little finger than all of the knights of the Kingsguard, and my Lord, I know what you did to keep us safe. You came up with a clever strategy, and when that wasn’t enough, you led men into the battle yourself.”

“How did you know?”

“I asked Podrick. He’s very proud of you, my Lord. As am I. I may not have chosen you as my husband, but you are a good man. A kind, intelligent, caring, clever man. I am proud to be your wife. Did I ever tell you, my Lord, that my father wanted to break my betrothal to Joffrey right before he was arrested?”

Tyrion blinked at the change in subject. “No, you didn’t. And it’s Tyrion, Sansa, just Tyrion.”

She smiled. _After I year of marriage, I guess I should call him by his name._ “Tyrion. My father wanted to break my betrothal and send me and my sister back to Winterfell shortly after his leg was injured. Looking back, I think he’d just discovered the King’s true lineage.” She watched Tyrion’s face closely and saw that she had spoken true.

“How did you find out?”

“I heard Stannis’ proclamation being read when we went to the market in King’s Landing a few weeks ago. My father said he would break my betrothal to Joffrey, and that when I was old enough, he promised to make me a match with someone who’s brave and gentle and strong.” She smiled. “I was horrified at the thought of leaving King’s Landing, and I responded by yelling that I didn’t want someone brave and gentle and strong. I wanted Joffrey.”

Tyrion snorted.

“Yes, my sister made much the same noise. It was only later I realised what I’d said,” she said with a grin before sobering once again. “My Lord, Tyrion, in a roundabout way, I think my father’s promise came true. You are brave and gentle and strong.”

He tried to interrupt but Sansa carried on over him. “You saved the city. You saved me. You’re not a knight, yet you went out and you fought to keep us all safe. All of us owe you a great deal. The last year has had many low points, but my Lord, Tyrion, you are not one of them. Not for me.”

She squeezed his hands and they sat lost in their own thoughts some more.

Suddenly Tyrion huffed. “Imagine how different your life would have been if you and your sister had left King’s Landing when your father wanted you to.”

“I’m fairly sure we wouldn’t be married. Perhaps you wouldn’t even have been Hand.” Sansa was struck with a thought. “Tyrion, you’re not the Hand anymore...” _There’s no hope I can use his influence to win a pardon for my family if he isn’t Hand._

“No, I’m not,” he agreed unhappily.

“Since you aren’t the Hand any more…could we leave King's Landing?”

“And go where? There is still a war on, Sansa.”

“But surely Casterly Rock would be safe enough? Especially now that there is peace between the Crownlands and the Reach? We could leave this place and all of these people who have hurt us. Or even if that’s not possible, we could go East. Visit Braavos or Pentos or just...anywhere that’s not here. We could leave.”

“Sansa…” Tyrion plucked at his blankets with his spare hand. “I don’t want to leave. Yes, people here have hurt us, but…I can’t leave. I belong here. The people here…they’re what I’m good at. Out-talking them, out-thinking them…it’s what I am. And I like it. I like it more than anything I’ve ever done. This last year…I’ve felt that my life had meaning. Like I was doing something useful for once.”

Sansa could see that he was close to tears and squeezed his hand in support.

“I wasn’t just the perverted Imp, throwing away my family’s money on wine and women. I was the Hand. I was…useful. I belonged.”

Sansa felt like her heart was being torn in two. She dearly wanted to leave, but...

“Then you’ll be useful again. We’ll stay, and you’ll be useful again,” she promised. She couldn’t leave him, not now. Not when he was in so much pain. He’d been kind to her — kind and brave and gentle. It wouldn’t be right to leave him, not like this. She thought of the Tully words — _Family, Duty, Honour._ As odd as it was, he was her husband. He was her family. The only family she had in King's Landing, whether she wanted him or not. Her duty was to stay with him while he was in so much pain.

She’d stay, and one day, she would leave. With, or without Tyrion.


	2. Juniper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S03E01 ‘Valar Dohaeris’.

Lord Tywin didn’t look up from his work when Sansa was shown into the room. She was surprised to find Tyrion sitting in front of the desk — when the servant had found her as she was returning to the Maidenvault after her morning lessons from Lord Varys and said that Tywin Lannister wished to speak with her, she didn’t realise her husband would be there as well. She crossed the room and sat beside her husband, who looked like he was twitching with the need to speak.

She raised an eyebrow at him, but when he didn’t say anything, she folded her hands demurely onto her lap and settled in to wait. Court gossip held that Joffrey was terrified of his grandfather, so she was fairly sure she was safe from him in here. She would happily sit here all day, listening to the scratch of quill on paper and the clink of the nib hitting the inkwell, happy to ignore the memories she had of this room (though she noted it had been redecorated since Tyrion had acted as Hand) if it meant Joffrey wouldn’t be able to torture her.

Perhaps with Margaery at court now his attentions would be...diverted. She hoped so, but felt guilty for the thought. Margaery Tyrell seemed like a sweet girl who didn’t deserve Joffrey’s attentions.

No one deserved Joffrey’s attentions.

Sansa felt like she was nearly dozing off before Tyrion finally stopped fidgeting and spoke.

“The badge looks good on you,” he said in a petulant tone.

Sansa was horrified. She hadn’t been allowed to use a tone like that with her parents since she had turned five!

“Almost as good as it looked on me,” he continued as Lord Tywin ignored him and continued to write.

Sansa was struck with the sudden wish that her chair was closer to her husband’s, so she could give him a decent kick to shut him up. She vowed to sit closer to him in future. He was noble and brave, this was true, but he was also a _blistering idiot who needed to learn when to keep his mouth shut._

Oblivious to her incredulous look, Tyrion tried again to get his father to acknowledge him. “Are you enjoying your new position?”

Lord Tywin finally put down his quill. He didn’t even look in Sansa’s direction as he sneered at his son. “Am I enjoying it?”

“I was very happy as Hand of the King,” explained Tyrion in an innocent voice. Sansa didn't believe it for a minute.

Lord Tywin snorted. “Yes, I heard how happy you were.” He blew on the ink to dry it, then rolled and sealed the letter. “I sent you here to advise the King. I gave you real power and authority. And you chose to spend your days as you always have — bedding harlots and drinking with thieves.”

“Occasionally I drank with the harlots,” said Tyrion with a pained smile on his face.

Sansa froze. She hadn’t thought...she hadn’t expected...she was a stupid little girl. She’d refused her husband, so of course he was seeking release elsewhere. She was just lucky he’d kept his promise and hadn’t forced her. She knew he was well within his rights to bed her regardless of her wishes on the matter.

“What do you want, Tyrion?”

“Why does everyone assume I want something? Can’t I simply visit with my beloved father?” Tyrion paused as his father got up and poured a glass of wine. “My beloved father who somehow forgot to visit his wounded son after he fell on the battlefield.”

His father pointedly stopped pouring after one glass. He clearly was not going to offer them a drink.

“Maester Pycelle assured me your wounds were not fatal,” said Lord Tywin.

“I organised the defense of the city,” protested Tyrion.

 _He sounds like Jon,_ Sansa realised suddenly. Like Jon after Theon had played a mean trick on Bran or Rickon, and Jon had been blamed for it as he often had been, particularly if it had been her mother meting out the punishment. _Honest and truthful, yet knowing he wasn’t going to convince anyone of the truth._

It had been a long time since Sansa had thought of Jon. She’d always been awful to him, she remembered. She had followed her mother’s lead, and was jealous of how close he was with Arya. She’d so wanted her sister to like her, to be like her, but Arya was always so different.

And now Arya was lost, Jon was a member of the Night’s Watch, and her mother was out there somewhere with Robb’s army. She wondered if she would ever see them again. If she did, she vowed, she would treat them a lot better. She’d been awful to Arya and Jon, just awful. They were her family — what was it her father had told them? _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

She was a wolf alone now. A wolf in a den of lions. Sansa wondered how she would ever survive this. Then again, maybe she could build her own pack. Take the lessons she was learning — from Varys, from surviving every day in this hellish place — and survive. Thrive. And perhaps even beat them at their own game.

To do that, Sansa knew she needed information, as much information as she could gather. So she turned her attention back to the conversation between Tyrion and his father — and immediately wished she hadn’t.

“What do you want, Tyrion?” asked Tywin. “Why are you wasting my time?”

“I bled in the mud for our family. And as my reward, I was trundled off to some dark little cell.” He gulped, fighting back his tears. “What do I want? A little bloody gratitude would be a start.”

“Jugglers and singers require applause. You are a Lannister. Do you think I demanded a garland of roses every time I suffered a wound on the battlefield? Hmm?”

Tyrion didn’t say anything, and Sansa didn’t dare breathe. They had seemingly forgotten she was there.

“Now, I have a kingdom to manage. Stop wasting my time, and tell me what you want,” said Lord Tywin, reseating himself at his desk.

Tyrion looked at her, and Sansa offered him a small smile. He turned back to his father and raised his chin. “I want what is mine, by right. Jaime is your eldest son, heir to your lands and titles, but he is a Kingsguard. Forbidden from marriage or inheritance. The day Jaime put on the white cloak he gave up his claim on Casterly Rock. I am your son and lawful heir.”

Lord Tywin stared at a point beyond Sansa and Tyrion. “You want Casterly Rock.”

“It is mine, by right. I am a married man. My wife and I wish to raise our children at Casterly Rock.”

Sansa wondered just what Tyrion was playing at. He’d said just the other day that he didn’t want to leave King’s Landing, and given that she was still a maiden, there were no children nor promise of children for them to raise there!

Unless...perhaps one of his whores was pregnant. Maybe he was hoping she would allow his bastards to be raised at Casterly Rock as if they were his trueborn children.

Sansa didn’t know what to think of that. On the one hand, she didn’t want to sleep with him, this much was true. But on the other, the idea of someone else sleeping with her husband made her feel almost...jealous. She’d been raised on the belief that husbands and wives should be faithful to each other, and the idea that her husband had looked outside their marriage sat ill with her.

Did she want to raise her husband’s bastards? Her mother had always seemed to hate Jon for being her husband’s bastard. But on the other hand, Sansa had just vowed to be nicer to Jon if she ever saw him again. Could she extend that attitude to Tyrion’s bastard? On the other hand, if Tyrion was having a child with one of his whores...maybe she didn’t have to feel bad about leaving him for home. Lord Baelish had smiled at her the last time they’d passed in the hallway and said “soon”. She wondered how soon his soon was...

Sansa realised she was up to about four hands in that conversation and decided to think about these things later when she was on her own.

Lord Tywin sighed. “We’ll find you accommodations more suited to your name and as a reward for your accomplishments during the Battle of Blackwater Bay. And when the time is right, you will be given a position fit for your talents so that you can serve your family and protect our legacy. And as for raising children...first you must produce them.”

Lord Tywin looked her up and down. “You certainly managed to get a suitable wife, even if you did have to trick her into the marriage. She is the key to the North and her brother’s heir. I would have expected you to have bred her by now, but you have been too busy with your whores, it would seem.”

He turned back to his son. “Produce a trueborn son and I may reconsider your place in the family. It would certainly be useful to have a claim to the North once we defeat the Stark army, especially now that Winterfell is held by the Ironborn. They are hopeless on land and should be easy to remove from Winterfell, even if we have to raze it to the ground to do so.”

Sansa felt sick at the thought of Winterfell burning. She hoped that Bran and Rickon were being treated well by Theon — even if he was a treacherous slug.

“But for now, I would let myself be consumed by maggots before mocking the family name and making you heir to Casterly Rock!” roared Tywin at his son.

Tyrion was shaking his head. “Why?” he breathed, pain evident in his tone.

“Why?” roared Lord Tywin. “You ask that? You, who killed your mother to come into the world?” He stood, moving around the desk to tower over her husband. “You are an ill-made, spiteful little creature, full of envy, lust and low cunning. Men’s laws give you the right to bear my name and display my colours, since I cannot prove you are not mine. And to teach me humility, the Gods have condemned me to watch you waddle about, wearing that proud lion that was my father’s sigil and his father’s before him. But neither Gods nor men will ever compel me to let you turn Casterly Rock into your whorehouse. Go, now. We’ll speak no more about your ‘right’ to Casterly Rock. Go!”

Tyrion rose from his seat as if he had suffered a vicious wound and slowly made his way to the door. Sansa rose, dipped a small curtsey to Lord Tywin who ignored her, and swiftly caught up to her husband.

“Oh, and one more thing: the next whore I find in your bed I’ll hang. You have a wife now. Be of some use to your family and get a trueborn son on her if you want someone to fuck.”

Sansa looked at her husband’s face to see his expression was blank. Completely and utterly blank.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Sansa was moved into a large, well-appointed set of rooms in a quiet area of the Red Keep. She would have supposed these rooms were for her alone, except there were books scattered everywhere. And she recognised that cloak.

It seemed Tyrion and she were to share chambers again. But this time…

Sansa made a quick circuit of the rooms but her suspicion was correct. This time there was only one bed.

She’d tried to talk to Tyrion after they’d left his father’s office but she hadn’t known what to say. It was clear that his father’s words had deeply hurt him. It was obvious in every move he made. Sansa had never seen a man take a death blow in battle, but she imagined that’s how they moved — stiff, shaken, and staring straight ahead as if the only thing keeping them moving was their will.

He’d walked her back to the Maidenvault, bowed stiffly, and left without saying a word. She hadn’t seen him since, though Court gossip held that Podrick and Bronn had been seen making frequent trips to get Tyrion more wine over the past few days. She hadn’t heard any rumours about whores being involved, but then, she hadn’t heard anything until Lord Tywin had mentioned it the other day. Her husband was clearly good at being discreet if his father was the only one able to discover what he’d been up to. She'd considered seeing if Lord Varys knew anything, but her pride had gotten in the way.

Sansa sighed and called for Aly to bring dinner.

After she ate, Sansa changed into her nightgown and robe and settled in with her sewing on the chaise in front of the fire. She needed to make a new dress for Margaery and Joffrey's wedding, and wasn't sure what pattern of embroidery she wanted to wear. She had a few ideas, and felt creative enough that night to try a few of them out.

As she sewed, she found her mind turning over the puzzle of her marriage. Her husband was clearly miserable — and, for all it was an arranged, unconsummated match, it didn’t sit well with Sansa for her husband to be miserable. She’d decided before they were even married that she would try and make the best of this situation. For all that he said he didn’t want to leave King’s Landing, Tyrion had still asked his father if they could go. Casterly Rock wasn’t Winterfell, but it was better than King’s Landing. Despite the strange conversation she'd had with Lord Baelish the other day, she still felt that Tyrion was the best option she had for leaving this place — but she couldn’t do that if he was perpetually drunk.

She would have to find something else for him to do. He'd seemed to thrive on the challenge of being Hand — he was constantly busy and had dramatically cut down on his drinking, from what she'd observed and what the Westerladies had said.

She wasn’t sure how to feel about the whores though. She didn’t want to have sex with her husband — the small amount of fondness she felt for him was nowhere near the love she hoped to feel with whoever took her maidenhead — but the idea of him having sex with someone else while married to her didn’t sit easily with Sansa. She’d respected her marriage vows, but they’d never talked about Tyrion respecting his. _Stupid little girl,_ she thought to herself. _Everyone knows men have needs. You should be grateful he’s meeting his with someone else since you don’t want to invite him to your bed._

A few hours later her eyes were scratchy and sore, her back aching from the chaise. It was the hardest thing she had ever sat on — she'd sat on stone benches that were softer. Her fingers were cramped around her needle, and after she stabbed herself for the third time she decided to give up for the night. Her husband may have been assigned these rooms with her, but he clearly didn't plan on sharing them with her.

She had removed the warming pan from the bed and was in the process of climbing into bed when Tyrion walked into the room.

She froze, half in the bed, half out. Tyrion froze as well, and for several long moments the reluctant couple just stared at each other.

Tyrion dropped his eyes and looked around the room, and Sansa scrambled into bed and smoothed the covers around her as she sat against the pile of pillows.

“There's only one bed.” They were the first words he'd said to her since they'd talked in his sickroom.

“Yes, I'd noticed.”

He nodded, and staggered towards the chaise. Sansa wondered just how drunk he was — he could barely walk in a straight line.

“I'll sleep here then. I'm small, I'll fit.” He made to move her sewing and Sansa made a quick decision.

“My Lor- Tyrion, stop.”

“I'm sorry, did I mess up your work?” he slurred.

“No, not at all. It's just...that is the most uncomfortable piece of furniture I've ever sat on.”

Tyrion chuckled without humour. “I'm fairly sure I've slept on worse surfaces. Your aunt's cells in the Eyrie come to mind.”

“I’m not sure about them, but it's harder than the walls of Winterfell and I've sat on those. That thing is cursed uncomfortable, and I cannot in all good conscience let you sleep there.”

“But where else is there? Are you banning me from our rooms entirely? Shall I sleep on the floor? Curled up in front of the fire like a dog?”

“No, I am offering you the _bed,_ ” she said in a pointed tone.

That seemed to bring Tyrion up short. “What are you -”

“Not like that, my Lord,” she hurriedly said. “Not for that. Just to sleep.”

“I said I wouldn't share your bed until you invited me.”

“And I am inviting you to sleep, husband. Just to sleep.”

He bit his lip and looked down. “Are you sure?”

“Do you plan to...do anything to me while I am asleep?”

“No! No, of course not.”

“Then what is the issue? Tyrion, you are an honourable man. I trust you.”

“You shouldn't, Sansa. Don't you know my reputation?”

“What reputation? Before we married I'd heard you spoken of as a perverted imp, that is true. But so far all I've seen is kindness, intelligence, and honour.”

Tyrion remained hovering beside the chaise, eyes downcast and one hand absently plucking at her sewing. “My Lady, you don't know what you are saying. You are a gentle soul, you don't know... I'm an ill-made, perverted little creature.”

Sansa could hear the echo of his father's voice in his words. She didn't understand the relationship between the two — she'd never be so rude to her parents, and they'd never be so cruel to her. Well, her parent, anyway. Her heart clenched with the feeling of suddenly missing her father once again, and it made her tone sharp.

“I disagree, and I tire of this conversation. Get changed and come to bed, Tyrion. We can discuss this further in the morning.” Sansa had no plans to ever have this conversation again, but he didn't need to know that.

To her surprise, the firm tone she had used worked. Tyrion moved behind the folding screen in the corner and, in short order, appeared ready for bed. He blew out the remaining candles in the room, save the ones at either side of the bed, and clambered into the bed.

“Perhaps I should sleep on top of the coverlet?” he asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The room is chilly. Under the covers, now.” Sansa let annoyance seep into her voice and was entertained to watch her husband meekly obey.

Once they were both in bed together, they lay stiffly on their backs as far apart from each other as possible without falling out of the bed. Sansa could feel the tension in the air — she did trust Tyrion, she _did_. It was still...odd to be sharing a bed with another person. She hadn’t done so in years, not since she was very small. She wondered if sharing this would make the situation more or less uncomfortable.

“It’s been awhile since I last shared a bed with someone,” she remarked in what she hoped was a casual tone.

She felt the bed shift as Tyrion suddenly sat upright to look at her. “But, I thought, my Lady, aren’t you…” he trailed off with a perplexed expression on his face and Sansa couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, your face! I do think the amount of wine you’ve drunk has dulled your wits, Tyrion,” laughed Sansa. “I was a child, and my sister shared with me. I hope you’re a more restful bedmate than her — she kicked something terrible and left me black and blue from knee to stomach the next day.”

He smiled sadly as he sunk down on his pillows. “You must miss her.”

Sansa quirked her lips, resolutely staring at the ceiling and willing herself not to cry. “I do. I know I shouldn’t — my family are traitors, I am loyal to you and to the King — but...Arya disappeared. I don’t know if she’s still in King’s Landing, if she managed to make it back to Winterfell or to Robb’s army...I just don’t know. Not knowing makes it all the harder.”

A tear rolled down her face and Sansa hurriedly brushed it away.

“Gods we hated each other when we were younger. We were so stupid.”

More tears, and this time Sansa gave up and didn’t try and brush them away.

“But I miss her. If I ever see her again, things will be different between us. I’m sure she’ll still be strange and annoying, but...she’s my sister. I still love her. I miss her. And I pray to the Gods every day that she is safe. Wherever she is, I hope she is safe.”

With that, she rolled over and blew out the candle on her side of the bed, then closing her eyes and making herself as comfortable as she could while staying a respectable distance from Tyrion. She felt his eyes on her back for what seemed like an eternity, before he too blew out his candle and the room descended into darkness.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few days, Sansa observed as her husband continued to try and drink himself into an early grave. Each night he tried to sleep on the chaise but she ordered him to bed, and eventually his mutters died off. She wondered what he did with his days, now he was no longer Hand. He had no responsibilities, and she thought he looked rather...lost without anything to do. From what she could tell, he spent most of his time drinking with his friend Bronn. She supposed he was also visiting whores, as was his wont, but he was at least being discreet about it. She appreciated that, even if she was still conflicted about him visiting them in the first place.

Now that Lord Tywin was in King’s Landing, the King’s attention seemed diverted by his grandfather and his new betrothed. Sansa found she actually had a lot of freedom within the Red Keep these days, and so she returned with pleasure to her lessons with Lord Varys. Although Chella, daughter of Cheyk, had left King’s Landing with the rest of the Hillmen, Sansa didn’t want to give up her archery practice. Varys helped her set up targets in the room full of dragon skulls leading towards his office. It was hard to hit the targets in the flickering light of the torches, but slowly Sansa was improving.

Varys worked her hard, training her to observe, how to read expression, tone and posture, how to listen for the unspoken, how to make oneself unobtrusive, and when to watch for what people will reveal when they think themselves unnoticed, and the nine tell-tales of a lie. He’d even started her on basic disguises — she had a rough-spun gown and a dark wig she left hidden in his office.

One morning, Sansa and Lord Varys donned disguises and snuck out of a small side entrance to the Red Keep and made their way to the docks. They were playing the role of a portly elder man escorting his daughter for a walk, their heads bowed together as they walked arm in arm. People smiled to see the simple picture they made, of a doting father and a caring daughter. They reached the docks and slowly began to traverse them, with Sansa noting for Lord Varys what she observed about the ships based on their design and the goods she could see being loaded onto them.

They stopped in front of a tidy cog, the _Dove_ , and watched as goods were loaded on and off it in the cool morning sun. Lord Varys raised an eyebrow at her, and Sansa reported what she had observed.

“Dorne. This ship is going to Dorne. It’s carrying silk, lace and carpets from Myr. The captain is also taking on some noble guests travelling south, based on the luggage piled on the quay.”

Lord Varys smiled, still playing the indulgent father, and they moved to the next ship. Copies of all ships’ manifests were sent to him by the harbourmaster each evening, so he knew exactly what was on each ship, but it pleased him to see his young apprentice learning to truly observe.

“How do you know this?”

“That style of ship is typical of the shipwrights of Myr, as their flat bottoms allow them to navigate the sandy rivers surrounding Myr, according to the book on ships you leant me the other week. If this ship has come from Myr, as it likely has by the look of the crew, then it is likely to be carrying lace, carpets, silks, or wine. I see no casks on board, or on the dock, while there are large bales of fabrics. As for going to Dorne, well…”

He raised his eyebrow and Sansa flushed. “I overheard one of the passengers say that is where they were headed.”

Lord Varys hummed, and inclined his head at the next ship along.

“Ironborn.” Varys didn’t stop to ask her how she knew — the quiet rage with which she’d spat the word made it clear she knew exactly what she was talking about.

They reached the far end of the docks and gazed over the sea where larger ships were at anchor, waiting for berths. One of those was a simple Westerosi ship, with white sails decorated with a large mockingbird.

“That must be Lord Baelish's ship,” remarked Sansa. “It appears to be new.”

Lord Varys hummed as they turned back to the Keep.

A thought struck Sansa as she spotted the burned-out hulks of Stannis Baratheon’s fleet. “My Lord, who is the current Master of Ships? That position was held by the traitor Stannis, wasn't it?”

“Yes, it was. The office is vacant at the moment, as is the Master of Laws.”

Sansa nodded. “I wonder... would Lord Tyrion be suitable for either role? He seems rather bored now that he is no longer Hand. As his wife, I am concerned about his drinking…”

Lord Varys smiled at her. “That is a good idea. He'd make a good Master of Laws. I shall see what I can do.”

Sansa smiled to herself. Hopefully a new position on the Small Council would give Tyrion something to do other than drink all day. She was rather proud of that idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tywin really has no idea who Tyrion actually is, does he?


	3. Lemon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a Lannister.”
> 
> “The littlest Lannister.”
> 
> “But a Lannister nonetheless. Even the smallest of lions have teeth.”
> 
> “As do wolves, Sansa. As do wolves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda drag Renly’s character through the mud for a bit here. I’m sure he was a perfectly capable member of the Small Council — of what we saw of him in Season 1 he seemed competent.
> 
> The story about Sansa, Arya and lemoncakes in the middle of the night comes from BellatrixLives’ Wolf in the Lion’s Den. That story was a partial inspiration for this one, so go and read it if you haven’t already :-)
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S03E03 ‘Walk of Punishment’, S03E04 ‘And Now His Watch Is Ended’ and S03E10 ‘Mhysa’. And one line from S03E07 ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’. Cookies to those who spot it without resorting to google/youtube :-)
> 
> To those of you who are old enough in fandom to remember when ‘lemon’ meant something very specific...sorry. There are no lemons in this chapter. I’ve aged Sansa up slightly, but she’s still only 16 in this chapter. Far too young for lemons imho.

Tyrion entered the new Small Council chamber to see Pycelle, Varys and Littlefinger all standing in a row at the foot of the table, his father at the other end. There were five chairs arrayed along one side of the table, with one solitary chair at the head of the table beside Tywin.

His father sat, and there was a mad scramble among the other men as they rushed to take the seat closest to him. Littlefinger gained the seat closest to Tywin, with Varys beside him, then Pycelle. Tyrion was trying to hide his amusement at the power play when soft footsteps behind him made him turn.

Cersei swept in and, from the look on her face, was not thrilled with the remaining seating choices. She walked past Tyrion, picked up the chair beside Pycelle, and carried it around to the other side of the table so she was seated opposite Littlefinger and very pointedly at Tywin’s right hand.

The final chair was now isolated from the rest, and the other members of the Small Council were staring at him. Tyrion smirked at them as he walked over to it. As it was taller than he was, he couldn’t lift it as Cersei had done — so he dragged it.

The chair made a horrendous sound as he repositioned it at the foot of the table, opposite his father, and climbed into it. His father looked pained, Cersei amused, and Varys dismayed. He couldn’t read Littlefinger’s expression — the Master of Coin was looking into his lap — and Pycelle looked as doddery as usual.

Tyrion didn’t know why he’d been summoned to a Small Council meeting, but so far he’d had fun.

He decided to see how far he could push his father until the man erupted. He adjusted his chair, making it squeak on the floor again, and addressed Lord Tywin. “Intimate, _lovely_ table. Better chairs that the old Small Council chamber, and conveniently close to your own quarters. You have my approval.”

Tywin ignored him, asking the room in general how the rebuilding was progressing following the Battle of Blackwater. There were significant repairs to be made to the Red Keep and the city walls that Littlefinger had gotten a loan from the Iron Bank of Braavos for. However, thanks to Tyrion’s actions, they had only lost one ship from the Royal Navy.

Not that Tywin acknowledged Tyrion's skills at all.

The turn of the conversation to the Royal Navy caused Tywin to announce that Lord Mace Tyrell had been appointed Master of Ships, and would be taking his seat on the Small Council when he arrived in King's Landing for his daughter's wedding.

“Tyrion will serve as Master of Laws,” said Tywin before moving on to discussing what impact the death of Lord Hoster Tully on the Stark army. Lord Tully had held the Riverlands for many years, and there was speculation that some of the smaller houses would not want to remain with the Stark forces.

Tyrion wasn't really paying attention to the discussion. He was the Master of Laws, apparently. He had very little idea of what the role meant. He recalled that Renly Baratheon had been the last Master of Laws, known more for this wild ways than his academic pursuits. Tyrion guessed that the role was largely his to define as he wished. So he wasn't here just to annoy his father and sister. Pity. He rather enjoyed doing that. Then again, with an official position on the High Council, maybe he could still have some fun.

He decided to send for all the books confiscated from Renly's rooms here at the Red Keep, if they could be found, and see what, if anything, he had to do as the Master of Laws.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few weeks, Tyrion found his life improving dramatically. His work as Master of Laws was surprisingly interesting — managing the dungeons of the Red Keep and it's gaolers was tedious work, but after his experiences in the Sky Cells of the Eyrie, he was determined to make them a better place. He met with the various turnkeys and gaolers of the Red Keep’s dungeons, and found that on the whole they were terrible people. There was one, Rugen, who was in charge of the black cells and gave Tyrion the creeps. He debated dismissing the man, but faced the problem of not knowing who to replace many of the gaolers with. The current batch may be insensible idiots, but they were cheap insensible idiots.

He also found himself dispensing advice to various stewards about legal matters on their lands. The majority of Lords were more than capable of deciding what was law in their lands (and where they couldn’t decide, the Lord of the Great House of that region generally stepped in). However, sometimes there were trickier cases, and ravens often came to Tyrion asking what the official judgement of the King would be.

Given that Tyrion knew full well that the King’s official judgement would be _“kill them all and stick their heads on spikes”_ , Tyrion judged these matters as best he could based on his own knowledge, and on that of the few books of law Renly had had in his office — which, miraculously, had been left untouched other than a cursory search since Renly had left King’s Landing in the wake of Robert’s death. In truth, the majority of Renly’s books were more...pictorial than academic, and in order to understand them Tyrion often had to ‘read’ them with his head to the side to try and work out what exactly the figures were doing. Tyrion had never really been interested in having sexual relations with another man, but some of those diagrams did look interesting.

Since his wife hadn’t invited him to her bed for anything more than sleeping, the ideas raised by the book were...awkward. There were some things he thought he would be able to try with a nubile young lady such as his wife, but he didn’t dare press her before she was ready. He’d given his word that he wouldn’t have sex with her until she invited him and he always kept his word. If she ever invited him, that was. He hoped she would one day, but...he wasn’t sure.

He’d noticed his relationship with Sansa had gotten better since he’d been given his new role. Instead of spending his evenings drinking rotgut with Bronn in various bars around the city, he’d started spending evenings with her again. He’d puzzle through the trickier cases he was sent to rule on while she sewed. He found it useful to talk through the cases with her — her parents had raised her with a thorough understanding of justice as it was practiced in the North and the Riverlands, and he found it interesting to note the differences between the regions. Northern justice was harsh, but fair, whereas Riverlands justice tended to be more flexible and take circumstances into account. Both approaches were vastly different from his understanding of justice, which tended to rule in favour of whoever had the most money. He’d come to value her input, and to treasure their evenings spent together. He wondered if this was how to build a relationship with a noblewoman as fine as Sansa — through conversation and mutual respect.

Tyrion had taken over Renly’s old office, a spacious and airy room overlooking a private courtyard. One particularly lovely afternoon he found himself slumping down in his chair and not paying any attention to the scroll in his hands, and decided he would take a break and invite Sansa for a walk in the gardens. He enjoyed her company, and hoped she was coming to enjoy his. Surely if he kept being friendly and attentive to her, and treating her gently, she could come to love him in time. She was sixteen, after all. Tyrion remembered being sixteen — it was an age that was full of all sorts of urges. He hoped that by being there, and being kind, and gentle, that when the day came that Sansa wished to give into any urges she might feel that she’d given in to them with him.

It took a bit of searching, but eventually he found her, sewing in the company of several Westerladies. He felt like a blushing, awkward fool as he asked Sansa to join him for a walk, but she gave him a kind smile and handed her sewing basket to Aly to return to their room, seemingly pleased that he had sought her out. As the door closed behind him, he could hear giggles from the ladies.

“My friends think we are very sweet together, my Lor-Tyrion.”

Tyrion looked at Sansa to see her blushing and fiddling with the embroidery on her sleeves; he reached out to gently pat her hand. He wished she wasn’t so tall — it would be nice to be able to tuck her hand into the crook of his arm and escort her as a lady should be escorted.

But then again, if wishes were gold, he’d been even richer than he currently was. And that would probably be overkill.

“I am glad you have made friends here, Sansa. The Red Keep can be a lonely place on your own.”

They walked in silence until they reached one of the many gardens that scattered the Red Keep. Their conversation in the garden was stilted at first — they generally only spoke to each other in the quiet of their shared chamber, and they both seemed to find words harder to say in the bright sunlight. However, Tyrion refused to let that daunt him. He was a gifted conversationalist, if he did say so himself, and he put all of his skills towards getting to Sansa to engage in a lively conversation.

She was just recounting a story about how she and Arya had managed to get themselves banned from the dinner table on night through squabbling and had separately snuck down to the kitchens at Winterfell to try and make lemon cakes in the middle of the night and scared each other when Tyrion noticed two lords coming towards them, chortling behind their hands. They leered at Sansa and made a rude gesture at Tyrion as they passed. Their laughter was cruel and cold, not like the cheerful giggles that had farewelled them from Sansa’s sewing circle. He’d noticed that since he’d been gifted with such a prominent scar in the Battle of Blackwater, men were much more willing to laugh at him to his face. He stiffened — he’d been so caught up in the pleasure of walking with his beautiful wife through the gardens that he hadn’t thought how it would look.

Still. He knew who those men were. He muttered their names to himself so he wouldn’t forget them. “Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall. Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall. Ser Eldrick -”

“What are you doing?” Sansa interrupted, puzzlement clear in her voice.

“I have a list,” Tyrion drawled.

“A list of who? People who laugh at us?”

“People who laugh at us and will one day pay for it.”

“You should learn to ignore them. That’s what my Septa always used to say, when Arya or someone would laugh at me.”

“I doubt many people have laughed at you, Sansa. Besides, people have been laughing at me far longer than they’ve been laughing at you. I’m the Halfman, the Demon Monkey, the Imp…”

Before he could list any more of the dubious titles people had dubbed him with over the years Sansa broke in. “You’re a Lannister.”

She caught his arm and forced him to stop walking and face her.

“The littlest Lannister.”

“But a Lannister nonetheless. Even the smallest of lions have teeth.”

“As do wolves, Sansa. As do wolves.”

Sansa stared at him, her eyes clearly searching his for something. She seemed to have found it, as she nodded and they began to walk again.

“So, my husband, since we have both agreed that we have teeth, how should we punish them?”

“Who? Whom?”

“Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall. They have laughed at us, we should make them pay.”

“Ah,” mused Tyrion. “I could speak to Lord Varys and learn their perversions. Anyone named Desmond Crakehall must be a pervert.”

Sansa snorted, then looked embarrassed over the unladylike noise. She coughed. “I’m sure you would know, Tyrion. I hear you’re a pervert,” she teased.

“I am the Imp. I have certain standards to maintain.”

Sansa giggled, and sat on the bench they had come to, leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner.

“And what are your standards when it comes to vengeance, oh perverted Imp? Shall we sheep shift their beds?”

“Sheep shift, Sansa?”

“You cut a little hole in their mattress and you stuff sheep dung inside. Then you sew up the hole and make their bed again. Their rooms will stink, but they won’t know where it’s coming from.”

Sansa smiled wickedly as Tyrion pretended to be shocked. “Why, Lady Sansa! Such wickedness!”

Sansa’s smile dimmed slightly. “My sister used to do that when she was angry with me. And she was always angry with me.”

She seemed to shake herself and fixed a bright smile on her face; in that moment, Tyrion wished he could see her normal smile again. That fixed, bright, court smile grated on his nerves.

“A fine idea, my vengeful lady. One thing though — why sheep _shift_?”

Sansa blushed. “It’s the vulgar word for _dung_ ,” she whispered.

_By the Seven, sometimes I forget how young she is. Damn her height!_ he thought. Tyrion fought to hide his smile, but clearly not well enough as she raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Sansa...I think the word you are looking for is shit. Not shift.”

Her expression shuttered and she leaned back. “Oh. I’m sorry, my Lord. You must think me a foolish little girl.”

“Nonsense,” he said as he heaved himself onto the bench beside her. “I think you were very gently raised. You are a credit to your House. And your idea for vengeance is a good one. Swap the sheep dung for horse dung, since we have much more of that here in the Red Keep, and that would be a fitting punishment for Ser Sarsfield.”

“It would be?”

“Indeed. He does so enjoy inviting various women back to his room, according to my sources back when I was Hand. I imagine they will be less pleased to be there if it smells strongly of horse dung.”

They shared a conspiratorial smile.

“And Lord Crakehall?” Sansa asked.

“Leave Lord Crakehall to me.”

They looked around at the sound of running footsteps to see Podrick panting up to them.

“My Lord, My Lady,” he gasped, bowing. “Your father has called an urgent meeting of the Small Council.”

“Thank you for your company, Sansa. Duty calls, however.” He rose from the bench. “Feel free to enlist Podrick should you need to, Sansa. He might not know how to sew, but he does know how to keep watch.”

He grinned at her and trotted away, Pod trailing behind with a confused look on his face.

 

* * *

 

Sansa bowed her head as she prayed in the godswood. Her family had been in her thoughts more often recently, and she wanted to pray for their safety.

Her prayers were interrupted by a gentle cough. She looked around to see who had broken the stillness of the godswood to find Margaery standing behind her.

“Lady Sansa,” she greeted.

Sansa stood. “Lady Margaery. I’m sorry, did you want to worship at the heart tree?”

“No, Lady Sansa. My family worship the New Gods. I actually wondered if you would walk with me?”

“Of course, Lady Margaery.”

Sansa dusted off her skirts and joined Margaery, who was looking around curiously.

“Are all godswoods like this?”

“Mostly. Usually the heart tree is a weirwood, but they prefer to grow in the North. Our weirwood tree at Winterfell has the most beautiful leaves.”

“We pride ourselves on being excellent gardeners, us Tyrells. Perhaps we could entice a weirwood to grow here at King’s Landing for you.”

Sansa smiled as Margaery tucked her hand into the crook of Sansa’s arm and chivvied her out of the godswood.

“So,” whispered Margaery once they passed out of the godswood, “what did you pray for?”

Sansa blushed. “I can’t tell you!”

“Oh, why not? I’ll tell you what I’ll pray for in the Sept tomorrow. Let’s see...I’ll pray for my family’s health and happiness, as usual, for an end to the war, and for a short winter. Boring and traditional, I’m afraid. I hope you prayed for happiness.”

“For happiness?”

“Yes, for your happiness. Oh, Sansa — may I call you Sansa? — I remember the first time I ever saw you, in the Throne Room. I’ve never seen anyone who looked so unhappy. I want very much for you to be happy, Sansa.”

“I am happy, Lady Margaery. I have my friends, my sewing, my marriage. I am happy here in King’s Landing.” Sansa tried to imbibe her voice with as much sincerity as she could and met Margaery’s eyes, as Lord Varys had taught her to do when stretching the truth.

“Are you?” Margaery’s eyes searched hers. “Well, if that ever changes, if your husband ever mistreats you...please come to me. Once I am Queen I will have the power to make a number of changes.”

“I’m not sure the Queen can change a marriage that has been sworn in front of the eyes of men and the gods, Lady Margaery.”

“It’s Margaery, Sansa, just Margaery. I’d like us to be friends. And once I am Queen, well...the eyes of men and gods can sometimes be tricked.”

They began to descend a staircase towards the ocean and Margaery changed the topic. “You know what else I thought of when I saw you in the Throne Room? My cousin Allana. When I was younger, she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen — her hair was a similar shade to yours, and shone like rubies in candlelight. When I was twelve, I was all elbows and Allana looked like a goddess sent to torture me. ‘Pigface’, she called me.”

“No! I can’t believe it — there is no way you were ever anything other than lovely,” demurred Sansa. “Pigface. That’s ridiculous.”

“I think it had something to do with my nose. Whenever she passed me in the halls she’d oink.” Margaery started oinking like a pig and Sansa nearly missed a step because she was laughing too hard. “So I prayed she’d catch a horrible skin disease. A week after that she came down with porridge plague.”

“Porridge plague?” Sansa had never heard of such a thing.

“Oh, don’t you have it in the North? Your skin starts to look like boiled oats and eventually your face slides off and you die of agony.”

She had to be joking. Sansa had never heard of such a thing! “But that’s awful!”

Margaery nodded earnestly, then snorted with laughter.

“Oh, you — you made that up! Porridge plague! And I believed you. Gods, I’m such an idiot. First Tyrion, then you…”

“Don’t say that, no you’re not! You try and see the best in people, Sansa. It’s a wonderful thing.”

“Do you even have a cousin Allana?”

“Yes, she’s very real. She grew up to be the most beautiful woman and married a handsome lord and they had darling children and live in a castle by the sea. It’s all terribly frustrating.”

“I’m sure she’s jealous of you now though. You’ll be the Queen, here in the capital, and she’ll have to come and curtsey to you and call you ‘Your Grace’. She’ll have to pretend to be happy that you’re Queen when she’s just the wife of some minor lord.”

Margaery laughed along with Sansa, then reached out and took her hands. “This conversation has confirmed it, I want us to be friends. Good friends.”

“That would make me very happy,” replied Sansa. And she thought it would. The Westerladies were lovely, and Aly was becoming more of a friend and less of a handmaiden every day, but...Sansa was the daughter of a Great House, married to the son of another Great House. It would be nice to be friends with the daughter of another Great House. She didn’t think Margaery would defer to her on pretty much anything because of her family — either her birth family or her married family. Sansa was still hoping Lord Baelish would take her home — he would only smile and say “soon” whenever they saw each other — but until that happened it would be nice to have Margaery as a friend.

“We’ll be related soon enough, anyway. I believe technically you will be my aunt by marriage?”

“It seems so strange to be called aunt! But yes, I suppose I will be.”

“That settles it then. You and I, married into the Lannisters. We’ll have to bind together to stop them from running rampant over us.”

“The King is a Baratheon.”

Margaery gave Sansa a long, knowing look, then smiled, clearly ignoring what Sansa had just said. “It will be so lovely to have a friend here in King’s Landing. We can raise our children together! Why, maybe one of yours could marry one of mine one day.”

“Yes, children.” Sansa shifted uncomfortably.

“No sign of them yet?” Margaery asked, taking her arm as they began to move back up the stairs. “You have been married for a while though, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but...it has been a busy year. And my husband was grievously injured during the Battle of Blackwater and spent some time recovering. I believe your brother played an important part in that Battle?”

Margaery smiled. “My brother Loras is brave and gallant, this is true. But from what I hear of your husband, he was also brave in that Battle, as well as instrumental in the city’s defence. Moreover, he is rumoured to be clever — very clever. And he’s rather good-looking, even with the scar — especially with the scar! There are worse combinations.”

_Like Joffrey_. Sansa didn’t want to say it — she didn’t want to spoil their lovely walk by saying his name out loud. Margaery would find out about him soon enough, Sansa mused. If she was still in King’s Landing she would do all she could to make Margaery’s marriage to Joffrey bearable. She wasn’t sure what she could do, but as long as she was in King’s Landing, she would try.

Margaery seemed like a sweet girl. She didn’t deserve a monster like Joffrey. No one did.


	4. Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Tyrells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S03E01 ‘Valar Dohaeris’ as well as S03E02 ‘Dark Wings, Dark Words’. I’m trying to make Lady Tyrell a little more like the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale from Lauren Willig’s Pink Carnation books, because a) she’s awesome, b) I want to be her when I grow up (except maybe without the dog) and c) those books were one of my inspirations for this story.

Tyrion watched as his wife brushed her hands nervously down her dress and patted her hair to see it was still lying smooth as they walked along the corridor.

“You look lovely, Sansa.”

She blushed and dropped her hands. “Thank you, Tyrion.”

“Remind me again why we are doing this?”

“Because Margaery is my friend, and she invited us. We are going to be family and families eat together.”

“Yes, of course. So why are you nervous? You know everyone who is going to be there.”

Sansa stopped, and he walked a few more paces before turning back to her. She seemed very pale, standing there in the flickering torchlight. “Because this is the first event we are attending as a couple since our wedding. The first time we are being presented as Lord and Lady Lannister at an evening function.”

“Surely not? Wasn’t there that dinner...that reception...that feast…”

“No, my Lord. Between one thing and another — I’ve never officially attended any event with you since our wedding.”

Tyrion knew Sansa reverted back to calling him ‘my Lord’ when she was nervous, a habit she was slowly outgrowing.

“Tyrion, Sansa. We’ve been married for a year, even if none of that year has been in public together. You really should call me Tyrion by now.” He smiled to take the sting out of his words. “And there’s nothing to worry about. Your manners far exceed mine. If either of us is likely to cause a problem tonight, it will be me.”

“In which case, husband, I believe it is my wifely duty to stop you from drinking so much you want to make a fool of yourself. Or of me. I still remember how we left our wedding feast,” Sansa said pointedly.

Tyrion winced. “I may have been...playing at being drunker than I was.”

“Nonetheless. If we are out and about as Lord and Lady Lannister, there will be no talk of ‘tiny drunk cocks’. And anyway, do you really want to be drunk around your nephew and your sister?”

“I’d prefer not be to around them at all.”

Sansa looked like she was trying to purse her lips in disappointment but a smile broke through anyway.

“Very well, do you want to have anything less than your full faculties around you in the same room as Margaery Tyrell?”

“Ah. The lovely Lady Margaery. What do you think of her?” Aware of the time, Tyrion took Sansa’s arm and started guiding her towards the room they were meant to be dining in.

“She’s very lovely. Very kind. And unless I miss my guess, very clever.”

“I’ve only met her briefly, but I know her grandmother. If Lady Margaery is anything like the Queen of Thorns...you’re right, being drunk around Lady Margaery might not be the wisest course of action.”

“Do you think I’ll get to meet her grandmother? She sounds...interesting.”

“Lady Olenna Tyrell is without a doubt the most terrifying woman I have ever met. And that includes your mother, who wanted me dead; your aunt, who locked me into a Sky Cell; and my sister, who...well.” Tyrion coughed, while Sansa looked awkward at the mention of her family. He patted her hand. “I have no doubt that now the Rose of Highgarden is here in King’s Landing, the Queen of Thorns won’t be far away. If Margaery doesn’t introduce the two of you, I will brave the old battleaxe and introduce you myself.”

“Tyrion! You shouldn’t call people things like that! You don’t know who could be listening!” Sansa looked around, making sure they were out of earshot of anyone — guards, servants, nobles — who could have heard him call the head of one of the most powerful families in the Realm a ‘battleaxe’.

“Sansa. It’s Lady Tyrell. She is well aware of her reputation, and does everything she can do to enhance it. She’s terrifyingly intelligent, formidable, and incredibly wealthy. Not Lannister wealthy, but close. She would delight in being called a battleaxe, I am sure of it. Her tongue is as sharp as an axe, and she has an unerring aim with a cane towards young men who displease her. And all young men displease her.”

Sansa was still frowning.

“Cheer up, my lady wife. We’re here. Ready for our first official appearance as Lord and Lady Lannister?”

It seemed their conversation had distracted Sansa from her worries as her head flew up with a gasp at seeing the door in front of them. She raised her hand to try and check her appearance once again but Tyrion managed to grab it before it got too high.

“Sansa. You look beautiful. Trust me.” He kissed the back of her hand, and with a wink, nodded to the attendants.

They entered to find Margaery and Loras engaged in conversation, looking out onto the courtyard. Sansa and Margaery embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks, while Loras and Tyrion both bowed. They all stood around, making polite small talk and looking out over the lights of King’s Landing for several minutes before the attendant announced the arrival of Cersei and Joffrey.

Margaery and Sansa both curtseyed to the royal pair, while Loras made a neat bow. Tyrion just raised his glass of wine in salute — and saw his wife frown at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Please, sit, sit. I do apologise,” said Joffrey with a rather pompous manner as they entered the room. “Small Council meetings do drag on. At what point does it become treason to waste the King’s time?”

Margaery and Loras chuckled at the King’s witticism, while Sansa and Tyrion shared a look that clearly said that they had been on time, despite Tyrion also being on the Small Council.

They sat — Joffrey at the head of the table, with Margaery to his left and Cersei to his right. After seeing Sansa’s worried look, Tyrion pulled out the chair beside Margaery for her before taking the seat at the end of the table. Loras filled the final chair between Tyrion and Cersei. They weren’t following the usual form of sitting man-woman-man-woman, but Sansa was between the two people who she knew best, away from Joffrey, and within easy conversation distance of Loras. Tyrion was pleased with himself for facilitating this and poured himself another cup of wine as a reward.

And got another small glare from his wife.

“That’s a lovely gown, my Lady,” oozed the King at Margaery.

“Yes, it suits you perfectly,” agreed Cersei. “Though I imagine you might be rather...cold.”

“The climate is a bit more forgiving back in Highgarden, your Grace. But I am fine.”

“Shall I have them bring you a shawl, my Lady?” enquired the King as servants began to serve their meal.

“I am touched by your concern, your Grace. Luckily for us, our Tyrell blood runs quite warm, doesn’t it Loras?”

Tyrion fought not to roll his eyes at the idiocy coming from Lady Margaery. Seven Hells, he thought she was meant to be intelligent.

“You look lovely tonight as well, Lady Sansa,” said Loras politely. Sansa smiled and thanked him in reply, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Tyrion realised it was up to him to compliment his sister. “Cersei. You look...nice. Is that a new gown?”

Cersei raised her eyebrow, and responded anyway. “Yes. I have decided that armour is in this season. You might need some armour yourself, Lady Margaery. Joffrey tells me you stopped your carriage at Flea Bottom on your way back from the Sept this morning.”

“Yes, I did,” said Margaery, her eyes wide and shining with innocence. “I paid a visit to an orphanage the High Septon told me about.” She sent a winning smile at Joffrey, who stared back and shifted in his chair.

“Margaery does a great deal of work with the poor back in Highgarden,” explained Loras to Sansa and Cersei. “She takes a great deal of pride in it, and has achieved some remarkable things.”

“The lowest amongst us are no different from the highest, if you give them a chance and approach with an open heart,” smiled Margaery as Cersei glowered at her.

Tyrion was entertained, watching the interplay between Cersei and Margaery. _Margaery really is turning on a show,_ he decided. _No one is that beautiful and that innocent at the same time._

He noticed Sansa reach out a delicate hand to move her goblet so it was easier for a servant to pour her some wine, and reconsidered. _Surely there can’t be two people that beautiful, that innocent._ Sansa very steadily kept her gaze on her plate and avoided catching anyone’s eye.

But Tyrion didn’t think she was ignoring what was happening around her. To test his hypothesis, he drained his goblet and signaled for the servant to pour him a new one — and received a firm kick on his shin for his efforts.

He barely kept the grin off his face. So his little wolf had teeth after all. He accepted the filled goblet, then pointedly put it down untouched in front of him. Sansa flicked her gaze up to his and smiled slightly, then went back to paying attention to her plate.

Tyrion turned his attention back to the very polite argument unfolding between Margaery and Cersei.

“An open heart is what you’ll get if you linger too long in Flea Bottom, my dear. Not long ago we were attacked by a mob there. We had a full complement of guards and it didn’t stop them. Lady Sansa was torn away from us and badly hurt; the King barely escaped with his life.”

“Oh! Lady Sansa, that must have been dreadfully frightening. I am sorry,” twittered Margaery.

Sansa managed a tight smile. “It’s in the past, Lady Margaery. I was rescued and returned to the Red Keep, quite safe. Though I have listened to the advice of her Grace and not left the Keep since.”

Joffrey scoffed. “My mother and aunt have always had a penchant for drama, my mother even more so as she has started to grow older. Our lives were never truly in danger. My men and I kept them safe.”

Tyrion looked at Cersei to see she’d gone as white as a sheet. She looked like she’d been slapped, and she managed to speak without moving a single muscle in her face, saying “You are right, of course. You are your father’s son.”

At that, Loras looked down with a smirk. Tyrion knew they must have heard the rumours about Joffrey’s true parentage — Highgarden first declared for Renly, after all. Tyrion wondered why they were willing to marry the prize of their family to an inbred bastard. _What is Lady Tyrell playing at?_ He was looking forward to the old battleaxe returning to King’s Landing. It had been a few years since he’d last seen her but she was always entertaining. As long as you stayed out of reach of her cane...

“Hunger and filth can turn men into beasts,” said Margaery in a clear effort to change the topic. “I am glad that House Tyrell has been able to help in this regard. They tell me a hundred wagons arrive daily from the Reach. Wheat, barley, apples...we have had a blessed harvest. It is both our pleasure and our duty to assist the Crown in its time of need.”

Margaery smiled prettily at Joffrey, who blushed and shifted again in his chair. Tyrion could guess exactly what _services_ to the Crown Joffrey was picturing Margaery providing.

“See mother? Lady Margaery has clearly done this sort of charitable work before. I trust her judgement, and I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.”

“I’m sure she does.”

Cersei’s face looked like she’d sucked on a lemon and Tyrion was hard pressed to hide his glee. He wasn’t sure why they’d been invited by Lady Margaery, but if this was the sort of entertainment on offer he would have to insist they accepted every invitation.

He must have looked too happy, however, as there was another sharp kick to his shin. His wife had the most unerring aim…

“I would like to continue to make visits to the poor in King’s Landing, your Grace. I do so enjoy doing good works, and I believe that it is the duty of a Queen to provide for, and be beloved by, her people.”

“You are as wise as you are beautiful, Lady Margaery,” simpered the King. “You may take all the time you wish to visit the poor,” he added magnanimously.

“Thank you, your Grace. If I may ask…”

“You may ask anything, my Lady, and I will grant it.”

Margaery blushed again. Tyrion wondered how she had any blood left anywhere else in her body since it constantly seemed to be rushing towards her face.

“Your Grace, could Lady Sansa please accompany me? It would be so lovely to have her with me. I’m sure she would love doing charitable works, as she has such a kind and gentle soul.”

Tyrion could see Sansa freeze. He tried to see her face to gauge her reaction, but her porcelain skin showed no reaction.

It appeared his nephew was being generous. “Such a simple request, my Lady. Of course! As long as my Uncle says she may go, I have no problem with it. You may take Lady Sansa with you on your excursions.”

Sansa looked up at him and all Tyrion could see was hope. He hadn’t realised she hadn’t been outside the Red Keep since the riot. It was a big place, but still, if she wanted to wander the slums with Margaery he wasn’t going to stop her.

“It would comfort me to ensure our Ladies have a decent number of men at arms accompanying them, but I don’t foresee any problems as long as they are sufficiently guarded.”

Sansa smiled at him and tentatively, Tyrion picked up his goblet. This time, there was no sharp foot connecting with his shin, and he took a most satisfying gulp of wine.

“Would you like to accompany us, your Grace?” asked Margaery of Cersei.

Cersei looked as if she’d rather go head to head with a bear. “No, thank you Lady Margaery. I find my time is increasingly taken up with matters of state. But you girls run along and enjoy yourselves — I’m sure you will find much in the city to entertain you.”

Margaery smiled gently at Cersei and deftly changed the topic to the upcoming wedding. From the sounds of it, it was going to be quite expensive. Tyrion was glad that as Master of Laws, he had no official role to fill at the wedding — and didn’t have to try and work out how the Crown was going to pay for it.

All in all, it was a pleasant evening. Loras and Margaery showed they were skilled courtiers, gently moving the conversation on if, at any point, it lagged or got uncomfortable. Sansa remained relatively quiet, as did Tyrion. He even moderated his drinking and sarcastic comments, and was rewarded by Sansa not kicking him in the shin even once more during the evening.

For their first ‘official’ evening engagement as husband and wife, Tyrion thought it had gone rather well.

 

* * *

 

“I believe you grow more beautiful everyday,” remarked Loras to Sansa as he led her through the gardens that Margaery had claimed for her own at the Red Keep. They were charming gardens, full of beautifully scented flowers, babbling fountains, and the laughter and conversation of courtiers. Sansa had seen these gardens before, when walking around the Red Keep with Septa Mordane, but they looked much better now that Margaery was in residence.

“You are too kind, Ser Loras,” she demurred. She noticed several nobles in the gardens eyeing her as she strolled along on Loras’ arm, and refused to let their interest unsettle her. She’d found out more than enough about most of them through her tuition with Varys. She knew that Lord Kettleblack was rumoured to have an...indecent relationship with his horse, while Lady Sorrel was awfully keen on playing cyvasse in taverns down by the waterfront.

And then losing. 

And then settling her debts in the bedroom.

 _Sex makes a lot of people very stupid_ , thought Sansa. _Still, as Varys reminds me, all knowledge is worth having._ She enjoyed having knowledge over the others in the Red Keep. She wasn’t sure if she would ever use it, but she enjoyed having it.

She needed to build her own network outside of the Red Keep though. Sansa knew she was still largely restricted to the Keep, even if she was apparently now allowed out with Margaery to visit the poor of the city. She was relying on Varys’ little birds, and while they were good, they weren’t _hers_. She needed her own people. She especially needed to know what was happening in the North. They’d had no word since Theon had taken Winterfell. She didn’t even know if Bran and Rickon were still safe, still alive. She wondered how Bran was going — did he enjoy the special saddle Tyrion had designed for him? Was he allowed to ride at all? And what of Rickon — with both her and their mother gone from Winterfell, was there anyone who would make him seedcakes and cuddle him if he had a bad dream?

She had some news of her mother and Robb, though as that was from Lannister sources she wasn’t sure how to take it. Her sister had vanished, her brothers were unknown...and she was stuck in the Red Keep, married into one of the richest families in the Seven Kingdoms and cut off from everything she held dear.

Sometimes she wondered if she would go mad with the stress of it all. And sometimes she wondered what would happen if she did actually go mad — if she screamed and cried and destroyed furniture or went after Joffrey with her bow. She figured the Kingsguard would stop her before she could kill him, but maybe she’d get lucky and kill him first, particularly now the Hound had gone. Or maybe she could flee. She could use the disguise skills that Varys had taught her and flee — take as much gold as she could carry and run as far as she could.

Except she knew she wouldn’t get very far, not on her own. She was a weak young woman, and there were dangers out there for young women on their own. The Riot had shown her that. She had no fighting skills, and for all her height, she would be useless in a fight.

It galled, but she figured it was best to remain a caged bird for now. One day, she would take Joffrey and Cersei down. One day, she would be free.

Knowing that being in such a dark mood wouldn’t be best when meeting Margaery’s formidable grandmother, Sansa cast around for a topic she could chat with Loras about. He really was terribly handsome. Maybe if she’d been married to him she’d understand why sex seemed to make people stupid. He was awfully attractive. And taller than her.

But then her mind slipped to her husband. He might not be as handsome or as tall as Loras, but Tyrion was kind. And generous. And, as she’d found a few days ago when hunched over the dress she was making for the upcoming Royal Wedding, he gave good neck rubs. Loras probably didn’t give such good neck rubs — his hands were somewhat calloused from holding a sword. Particularly his right hand.

“You probably don’t remember the first time we met,” she said. Loras looked at her in puzzlement.

“At the Hand’s Tourney?” she reminded him. “You gave me your favour.”

He still looked puzzled.

“You- you gave me a rose, a red rose.” Finally, he nodded as if he remembered.

“Of course I did,” he said in a tone of voice that Sansa found rather condescending. “You were the most beautiful woman there. Why shouldn’t I award you my favour? I was most surprised not to see you at the feast afterwards. I had hoped for a dance.”

“I was thirteen, Ser Loras. My father would not let me attend.”

“Pfft, fathers. Who listens to them when there is fun to be had?”

 _By the Seven, he may be handsome, but I suspect Margaery got all the brains in this family,_ Sansa thought. _Has he forgotten what happened to my father? All this time with Varys and Tyrion has made me accustomed to speaking to clever people._

Loras escorted her to where Margaery was chatting with some of her ladies.

“Oh, Loras, you’re such a dear. Thank you for bringing Lady Sansa to me.”

He bowed, briefly, and tossed his hair back. The other ladies giggled behind their hands at him, and he took his leave.

“Lady Sansa Lannister, meet Lady Meredyth of House Crane and Lady Leonette of House Fossoway. They have come from Highgarden with Grandmother.”

Sansa and the other ladies curtseyed to each other. “Welcome to King’s Landing, ladies. If you are interested, some of the Westerladies and I like to meet in the afternoons and sew and share each other’s company. You are more than welcome to join us,” offered Sansa.

“That sounds wonderful, Sansa,” said Lady Leonette as she clapped her hands together. “I would so like to learn more about life here in the capital.”

“Excellent. I shall send my husband’s squire the next time we gather, then.”

Margaery broke in with a smile. “You are so kind and generous, Sansa. Thank you. But I must take you to grandmother — she is waiting to meet you.”

“And that’s our cue to leave,” smiled Lady Meredyth. “She’s still in a fury over one of her favourite gowns not being packed and I have no desire to be yelled at again today.”

The two Reachwomen bobbed their curtseys and left in a hurried swirl of skirts.

“Honestly. She’s not that bad,” soothed Margaery as she led Sansa down a path surrounded by rose bushes, her hand low on Sansa’s back.

Suddenly Sansa found herself face-to-face with a fierce looking older woman sitting on a chair in the middle of the path, her hands clasped on top of a cane.

“Lady Sansa, it is my honour to present my grandmother, the Lady Olenna of House Tyrell.”

Sansa dropped into a deep curtsey and kissed Lady Tyrell’s hand when it was extended. Even without the rumours she’d heard of the old woman, or what her husband and Varys had said about her, Sansa saw in her eyes that Lady Tyrell was not a woman to be trifled with. Lady Tyrell looked like she had no qualms about getting her way as often as she wanted, and she wouldn’t waste time on niceties.

“Sweet child. It’s so good of you visit me and my foolish flock of hens. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Sansa was taken aback. What a surprising thing to lead with. Her father had been killed over a year ago. Unless there was something about the rest of her family that Lady Tyrell knew that Sansa didn’t?

“And...I was sorry when I heard of Lord Renly’s death, Lady Tyrell. He was very gallant.”

“Gallant, yes, and charming and very clean. He knew how to dress and smile and somehow this gave him the notion he was fit to be king.”

“Renly was brave and gentle, grandmother,” said Margaery in a tone that made Sansa think this was a discussion these women had had before. “Father liked him, and so did Loras.”

“Loras is young and very good at knocking men off horses with a stick. That does not make him wise. As to your fat-headed father -”

“Grandmother!” interrupted Margaery. “What will Sansa think of us?”

“She might think we have some wits about us. One of us at any rate,” Lady Tyrell said as she settled back into her chair.

Sansa wondered if she was partially in love with the old woman already. Lady Tyrell was just as formidable as Sansa had heard. She was _magnificent_.

“It was treason,” Lady Tyrell continued bluntly. “I warned them. Robert has two sons and Renly an older brother. How can he possibly have any claim to that ugly iron chair? We should have stayed well out of it, in my opinion. But once the cow’s been milked there’s no use squirting the cream back up her udders, so here we are to see things through. What do you say to that, Sansa?”

Sansa looked at her hands, trying to hide her smile. She was sick of the roundabout way the majority of the residents of the Red Keep spoke. Oh, it was useful enough for gathering secrets, but it was nice to hear bluntness once again.

“I think...I’m not sure what to think, Lady Tyrell.” When in doubt, Sansa knew, she should hide behind her pretty and pious reputation. It was safer if people underestimated her.

“A sensible answer, my girl. Now, should we have some lemon cakes?”

“Lemon cakes are my favourite!” Sansa said. This was a piece of information she was always happy to give away — as it usually meant she got lemon cakes in return.

“So we’ve been told,” said Lady Tyrell with a smile. She leaned over so she could see around Sansa and snapped at an attendant: “Are you going to bring us the food or do you mean to starve us to death?”

The attendant left the garden at a run and Lady Tyrell made a disgusted noise. “Honestly. So hard to get good help these days.”

Lady Tyrell pulled herself up from her chair and hooked her arm through Sansa’s, her cane supporting her weight on her other side. “Here, Sansa, come sit with me. I’m much less boring than these others.”

Sansa escorted Lady Tyrell under the shade of a pagoda and helped her into a chair, before taking her own seat.

“Do you know my son?” asked Lady Tyrell. “The Lord of Highgarden?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure, my Lady,” responded Sansa. “I have seen him from a distance but we have not been introduced.”

“No great pleasure, believe me,” muttered Lady Tyrell. “He’s a ponderous oaf. His father was an oaf as well — my husband, the late Lord Luthor.”

Sansa risked a glance at Margaery, and found the other girl staring at her with a sunny smile on her face. Seemingly, Margaery was used to her grandmother’s ways. Sansa shifted her gaze back to Lady Tyrell.

“He managed to ride off a cliff while hawking,” continued Lady Tyrell. Sansa snorted and tried to cover up her laughter, but it was hard. Lady Tyrell just sounded so disgusted! “They say he was looking up at the sky and paying no mind to where his horse was taking him. And now my son is doing the same. Only this time he’s riding a lion instead of a horse.”

 _Ah,_ thought Sansa. _So there’s a reason I’m here. They want to sound me out about the Lannisters._

“Now,” said Lady Tyrell as she leaned forward in her chair. “I want you to tell me the truth about this royal boy. This Joffrey.”

Sansa glanced at Margaery. She wasn’t sure what to say. “I, I…”

“You, you...who else would know better? You were betrothed to him before they married you off to the Imp, weren’t you? We’ve heard some troubling tales of the boy. Is there any truth to them? We heard he ordered you stripped and beaten in the Throne Room — is that true? Or just a vicious rumour?”

Sansa froze. All the pain, all the humiliations...they all rushed back to her at once. “Joff...King Joffrey, his Grace, he’s very fair and handsome and as-as brave as a lion.”

She tried to put a happy smile on her face but it wouldn’t stick. She could see both Margaery and Lady Tyrell studying her.

“Yes, all Lannisters are lions, and when a Tyrell farts it smells like a rose. But how kind is he? How clever? Has he a good heart, gentle hands?”

“I’m to be his wife,” interrupted Margaery. “I only want to know what that means.”

As Sansa scrabbled for words the attendant trotted up carrying a plate of lemon cakes. Distracted, Lady Tyrell leaned forward and ordered him to bring her some cheese. When he tried to say it wasn’t time for cheese yet, she snapped at him. “The cheese will be served when I want it served, and I want it served now.”

Sansa watched until the attendant was out of earshot, then turned back to Lady Tyrell, who offered her a lemon cake. “Are you frightened, child? No need for that. We’re only women here. Tell us the truth. No harm will come to you.”

Sansa picked at the cake on her plate. “My father always said to tell the truth.”

“Yes, he had that reputation. I met him a few times, and he was just as honourable as they all said he was.” _Lady Tyrell sounds as if she means ‘boring’ when she says ‘honourable’,_ thought Sansa. She was sure her father would have bored Lady Tyrell to tears, and she in turn would have been frustrated at his Northern manners. _It would have been entertaining to see them together_ , mused Sansa.

“And then they named him traitor, and took his head,” added Margaery.

It’s more than Sansa could bear. “Joffrey,” she spat. “Joffrey did that. He promised he would be merciful, and he cut my father’s head off. As a wedding present, he said. It was my Name Day. He said that was mercy. And then he took me up on the walls and made me look at it. At my father’s head. At my Septa’s head. At the heads of everyone in my family.” Sansa bit her lip as she tried to hold back her tears.

“Go on,” said Margaery softly as she reached her hand out to cover Sansa’s. “We’re listening. We’re your friends.”

“I-I can’t, I never meant to say...my father was a traitor. My mother and brother are traitors as well. I have traitor’s blood, but I am loyal to my King and my husband. Please don’t make me say any more,” Sansa finished in a whisper.

“She’s terrified, grandmother, just look at her. Why, your hand has gone completely cold!” Margaery rubbed Sansa’s hand with her own to try and get some blood flowing back into it.

“Speak freely, child. We would never betray your confidence, I swear it.”

There was something about the old woman that made Sansa want to trust her, and Margaery needed to know. Sansa gathered her courage, looked Lady Tyrell in the eye and said “He’s a monster.”

“Ah.” Both Lady Tyrell and Margaery look unsurprised by her announcement. “That’s a pity. We’d hoped the rumours were wrong.”

“No, Lady Tyrell. If anything, the rumours didn’t tell the whole truth.”

Lady Tyrell sighed. “And so the Lord Oaf of Highgarden rides the family off a cliff.”

“You won’t break the betrothal? Even knowing the truth about Joffrey?”

“Us? No. My son has decreed that Margaery will be Queen, and I happen to think she’ll make a fine one.”

“Besides, one day I will have a son, and he will be King. And sons learn from their mothers,” added Margaery.

“Mine didn’t. Anyway, thank you for the truth, Sansa. It will go no further than us, you have my word.”

 

* * *

 

Sansa walked back to the chamber she shared with Tyrion, deep in thought. She’d spent the entire afternoon with the ladies of Highgarden, and in the end Lady Tyrell had sent a runner to summon the Westerladies so they could all sup together. It seemed that a good number of friendships would develop among the two groups of ladies, for which Sansa was glad. It would be nice to have more friends here in King’s Landing.

She felt for Margaery, she really did. The conversation with Margaery and Lady Tyrell had stirred up a lot of emotions she thought she had already dealt with.

In the whole of it, she was glad she was married to Tyrion. He was far from being the worst Lannister.

She opened the door to her chamber to see her husband sitting in front of the fire, reading. He looked up and smiled to see her.

“Sansa! How was your afternoon with the ladies of Highgarden?”

“Very pleasant, Tyrion. Lady Tyrell is a delight.”

He pulled a face. “Oh, no. She’s not a delight, she’s a terror.”

“She’s perfectly lovely!”

“Perhaps to you. She scares the wits out of me.”

“I don’t think anything scares the wits completely out of you, oh husband-of-mine. You have far too many wits for them to ever leave.”

He gasped, holding his hand to his chest in faux-shock. “My, is that my wife saying something nice about me?!”

Sansa laughed as she settled herself into the chair opposite his. “I say plenty of nice things about you; you just never listen.”

He chuckled, and poured her a glass of wine. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, before something occurred to Sansa.

“Tyrion, when is your Name Day?”

He looked over at her. “I was born in the 8th month, Sansa. At the wane of the Cat’s Moon.”

Sansa did some rapid calculations — “But that was only a month ago! Why didn’t you say anything?”

Tyrion looked uncomfortable. “In my family...at Casterly Rock...my Name Day was never celebrated. My father never wanted the death of my mother to be celebrated.”

Sansa laughed bitterly. “My father was killed on my Name Day. Your mother died on yours. Truly, we are a matched set.”

They once again sat in silence, though this was more awkward than the earlier one. Sansa finished her glass, and Tyrion moved to refill it.

“If your Name Day was Cat’s Moon, then two of them have passed with no recognition from your wife.”

“Sansa -” Tyrion began to say something but she talked over him.

“This will not do. Fortunately, I do have something for you.”

She put down her glass and moved across to one of her trunks, neatly stacked at the edge of the room. There were some things they had chosen to leave in their trunks when they’d moved to these chambers — winter cloaks, that sort of thing — and she’d tucked something for Tyrion away in hers, trusting he’d have no reason to go through her belongings.

She carefully carried his present back over to the fire and gave it to him.

“A book, Sansa?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.

“Yes, Tyrion. A book.”

 

* * *

 

Tyrion held the book gingerly. It was obviously handmade — there was a small hill embossed on the front cover, it was bound together with twine, and there was no binding down the spine. He opened it to find, in careful lettering, _The Legends of the Hill Tribes of the Vale_ and in smaller letters underneath, _collected by Sansa Stark_.

“You made me a book?” he asked, carefully turning the pages. Each page was carefully scripted in Sansa’s neat hand, with the occasional illustration.

Tyrion could hear Sansa start to fidget with her hands as he looked through the book.

“I thought you might like it? Pod drew the illustrations. Chella, daughter of Cheyk, used to tell us the stories and legends of the Hillmen when we took breaks during our archery lessons. I wrote them down — I thought you might not have read them before.”

Tyrion looked up and her at smiled. “Indeed I haven’t. I had no idea the Hillmen of the Vale even had their own stories and legends. I’m fairly sure this is the first time they’ve ever been written down. This is a fantastic gift you have given me, Sansa. It is valuable beyond measure.”

Hours and hours of work had gone into the book he was holding in his hands. Tyrion was flabbergasted — this was most likely the only written copy of these stories in the known world. To call it a wonderful gift was to undersell it completely.

It figured his first Name Day gift would be a great one. No one had ever gotten him a Name Day gift before — not even Jaime.

Sansa was still hovering over him, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth. He captured her hand and gave it a quick kiss.

“Thank you Sansa. This is an amazing gift. I will treasure it always.” He squeezed her hand in thanks and let it go.

She smiled, and brushed a kiss on the top of his curls before he could react.

“Happy Name Day, Tyrion. I’m glad you enjoy my gift.”

With a soft smile, she moved to get ready for bed while Tyrion poured himself another glass of wine. He’d read for a bit before going to bed. _Just the first story,_ he thought. _I’ll stop after the first story._

Settling more comfortably in his chair, he opened the first page. “Gerde, daughter of Hedwig, was heavily pregnant when she became angry with the sun…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that according to the books Jaime gave Tyrion a horse for one of his Name Days. Shush. It’s better this way.


	5. Brambles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion gets more responsibilities, Pod gets a learning experience, Sansa gets out of the Red Keep for a visit to the city, and Ser Sarsfield gets his comeuppance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S03E03 ‘Walk of Punishment’.
> 
> Trigger warning: mentions of dog-fighting. No dog-fighting is shown and no dogs were harmed in the writing of this fic, but if it’s one of your triggers, skip the paragraph which opens with “A few days later, Sansa found herself restless with mischief.”
> 
> Also, writing part of this chapter reminded me of Tamora Pierce’s “Squire”. Tamora Pierce was a massively formative author for me as a kid, and I still love going back and re-reading her stuff as an old.

Tyrion was nearly dozing off in another Small Council meeting when he snapped back into focus at his father’s question: “What news of Jaime?”

The other Small Council members looked down at their hands and refused to meet the Hand’s eyes.

“Twenty thousand unwashed Northerners have known about his escape for weeks. Collectively, you control more spies and informants than the rest of the world combined. Do you mean to tell me that none of you has any notion of where he is?”

As Tyrion was the one person at this table who didn’t have his own spy network, he was rather amused to see that for once, he was out of the line of fire. He was ably handling all Master of Laws business and had caused no scandals or bother recently.

He’d have been quite bored with himself, but he was in the middle of negotiating with the Citadel for Maester Jordayne to come to King’s Landing to copy the book of legends Sansa had given him. He wanted to make sure there were several copies — one for the library here at the Red Keep, one for the Citadel, one for Casterly Rock, and one he hoped to send to Winterfell once the war was over. He was proud of his wife’s work, and wanted to make sure a copy of it was in the library of her childhood home — whether she ever got to see it there or not.

Though she would probably love to see Winterfell again. She hadn’t mentioned it for a long time, but sometimes her eyes went soft and Tyrion imagined she was picturing her home and family. As soon as the war was over, he would try to come up with some reason for them to head there. Even if he lied to his father and said they were making for Casterly Rock and just took a detour…

Regardless. He wasn’t about to part with his book, so Maester Jordayne, rumoured to be the best scribe at the Citadel, would just have to come to King’s Landing if he wanted to access such a rare volume. He’d been quite firm in his letters about this, and the Citadel was asking for an outrageous amount of money for Maester Jordayne’s services. Tyrion was ready to promise them an entire cartful of gold if it would mean the Maester got here quicker.

“We are trying, my Lord,” offered Varys.

“Try. Harder.”

Varys nodded, and both Baelish and Pycelle looked awkward.

“What do you know, then?”

“Robb Stark and most of his bannermen are still in the Riverlands. In his absence, Lord Bolton holds Harrenhal. Which would seem to make him Lord of Harrenhal, in practice if not in name,” said the eunuch, smiling sweetly at Baelish. Baelish refused to look around at him, and Tyrion wished he had wine with him. It was always entertaining to see those two squabble.

“He can have it. The name suits our purposes far more than that useless pile of rubble,” grumbled Tywin. “The Lord of Harrenhal would make a worthy suitor for the widow of Jon Arryn.”

A slow smirk spread across Baelish’s face, and Tyrion guessed Littlefinger had just gotten what he had wanted for a very long time.

“For which I am extremely grateful to you, my Lord. Lady Arryn and I have known each other since we were children. She has always been...positively predisposed towards me.”

Tyrion met Varys’ eyes across the table and they both shared a look of disbelief.

“A successful courtship would make Lord Baelish Acting Lord of the Vale,” warbled Pycelle.

“Titles do seem to breed titles,” remarked Littlefinger. Tyrion rolled his eyes.

“You’ll leave for the Eyrie as soon as possible, and bring Lysa Arryn into the fold.”

Tyrion was puzzled. It was odd that the Vale had not joined in the present conflict, but given Lysa Arryn’s connection with the Starks, surely that would be a more natural alliance for her to form? _Lysa Arryn feels no love for Lannisters, I’m sure of that. Just look at how she’d treated me!_ Tyrion thought frantically. _What excuse could I offer to keep Littlefinger in King’s Landing, and keep Sansa’s aunt out of the war? She deserves to have at least one relative unaffected by all of this…_

“Far be it from me to hinder true love,” interjected Tyrion, “but Lord Baelish’s absence would present certain problems. The Royal Wedding. It may end up being the most expensive event in living memory. It’s not a good time to leave the Crown’s finances unattended.”

“Fully agreed,” said his father merrily. Tyrion was instantly on guard — Tywin was never that happy, unless he was about to do something that would really upset his youngest son. “Which is why I’m naming you the new Master of Coin.”

And there it was. Tywin Lannister, fucking things up for his son as always. “Me? Master of Coin? I’m quite good at spending money, but a lifetime of outrageous wealth hasn’t taught me much about managing it!”

Tyrion had always thought part of Littlefinger’s success in the role came from the fact he was from a poor background. Tyrion had no idea how to manage money — it was just there! He just spent it! When he ran out he got some more!

“And what about my duties as Master of Laws? You can’t mean for me to have both roles.”

“Doran Martell will be coming to King’s Landing for the Royal Wedding. I mean to offer him the Master of Laws position. Until then, both positions are yours. If nothing else, the workload should keep you out of trouble and out of the whorehouses!” roared Tywin.

 

* * *

 

Given the fact that his father thought he spends all of his time in whorehouses, it was with some amusement that Tyrion found himself in Littlefinger’s most expensive brothel a few days later to collect the Crown’s books. It was the first time he'd been in a brothel since he’d arranged for Joffrey’s Name Day present, and really, he hadn’t missed coming to places like this. Spending evenings sitting in front of the fire with his wife and a book were much more pleasurable than paying a woman to pretend to enjoy him, Tyrion had found.

Though it was hilarious to see the expression on Pod’s face when the girl bent over to get the books out of the gap in the floor.

“Any advice for me on my new position?” asked Tyrion as Littlefinger stood from his desk and walked him to the door.

“Keep a low profile.”

“If I had a gold coin for every time I heard that joke, I’d be richer than you are,” observed Tyrion dryly.

“You are richer than I am,” remarked Littlefinger.

“Good point.”

“They’re only numbers. Numbers on paper. Once you understand that, it’s easy to make them behave. Trivial, even,” said Littlefinger as he opened the door. “If you want a real challenge, try whores.”

The laughter of Baelish’s whores could be heard plainly as they teased and titillated their guests.

“Oh, I’ve tried quite a few.”

“But not recently, I’ve heard?”

“No. Rather lost my taste for it, now I have a nubile young wife in my bed.”

Tyrion was amused to see Littlefinger’s expression flicker. Hidden feelings for Sansa, perhaps? Or was he just realising that Lysa Arryn was nowhere near the young beauty her niece was?

“Well, can’t stand around comparing our women, I’ve lots of work to do. Enjoy the Eyrie,” said Tyrion cheerfully as he walked out the door to find Bronn enjoying the attentions of some girls while Pod stood awkwardly by the cart of books.

He gestured for them both to follow him. There was one more thing they needed to do in the brothel before they left.

“Pod.”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“After a long consultation with my colleague, Ser Bronn, I have finally found a suitable reward for the services you have provided over and above what might be considered reasonable.”

He stopped outside the door to what he knew was one of the largest, most sumptuous rooms at the brothel.

“Tell me, Pod, in your nineteen years, have you ever been with a woman?”

He threw open the door and ushered Pod inside. Bronn followed, a look of curiosity on his face.

“No, my Lord…”

“Wonderful!” Tyrion cried as Bronn clapped Pod on the back.

After introducing Pod to the girls he had contracted for him, and leaving the young man with a sizeable purse at the instructions to be back in time for supper, Bronn and Tyrion left Pod to the attentions of three of Littlefinger’s finest whores.

 

* * *

 

Sansa’s moon time had come again, and the pain made her dizzy. She didn’t feel up to socialising with either the Westerladies or Margaery and her ladies, so she’d found a quiet corner of the courtyard outside their rooms to curl up in with her sewing. Aly found her there shortly after lunch, and after a quick look at Sansa’s face went to fetch her a cup of willowbark tea.

The two girls sat companionably in the shade — Sansa carefully embroidering a new shirt for Tyrion for the Royal Wedding, and Aly practising her writing.

The peace and quiet of the late afternoon was broken by the noise of Tyrion and Bronn arriving back in Tyrion’s office. Sansa considered moving, but she was comfortable in the shade and didn’t really want to shift.

It sounded like they were unpacking something heavy — perhaps books? — and pouring wine. There was silence for a while, then Tyrion spoke.

“Oh, gods.”

“What?” asked Bronn.

“For years I’ve heard Littlefinger is a magician. Whenever the Crown needs money, he rubs his hands together and poof! Mountains of gold suddenly appear.”

“Let me guess — he’s not a magician?”

“Correct.”

“He’s stealing it?”

“Worse. He’s borrowing it,” said Tyrion. Sansa frowned. Surely borrowing money wasn’t that bad?

“What’s wrong with that?” asked Bronn.

“We can’t afford to pay it back, that’s what’s wrong with it.” Sansa and Aly looked at each other, wondering if they should be overhearing this. “For starters, the Crown owes millions to my father,” said Tyrion.

“And since it’s his grandson’s ass on the Throne, I imagine he’ll forgive that debt.”

“Forgive a debt? My father? For a man of the world Bronn, you can be strangely naive.”

Bronn snorted. “I’ve never borrowed money before. I’m not clear on the rules.”

Tyrion cleared his throat and launched into a lecture. “Well, the basic principle is, I lend you money. And after an agreed-upon period of time, you return it. With interest.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Well, you have to,” explained Tyrion.

“But what if I don’t?” asked Bronn again.

“This, my friend, is why I don’t lend you money,” drawled Tyrion. “Anyway, it’s not my father that I’m worried about. It’s the Iron Bank of Braavos. We owe them tens of millions. If we fail to repay these loans, the Bank will fund our enemies. One way or another, they always get their gold back.”

_Could I get this information to Robb somehow? If the Crown is in a lot of debt to the Iron Bank, maybe the Iron Bank would be willing to back Robb?_ thought Sansa. Wars were expensive, she knew that much.

A sudden movement in the other corner of the garden caused Sansa to raise her head. She and Aly watched as Pod cut through the garden and entered the office, where Tyrion hailed him as a conquering hero. Was there something different in the way Pod walked?

It seemed that Tyrion and Bronn noticed this as well, as Bronn commented that “the lad’s practically skipping.”

“You were gone a long time,” commented Tyrion. “I trust you got your money’s worth? Or should I say, my money’s worth?”

Sansa and Aly exchanged a puzzled look. What were they talking about?

There was a clunk as someone, presumably Pod, dropped a heavy coin purse on the table.

Tyrion spluttered. “It was a gift, Podrick! This is more than I give you in a year!”

“He’s a squire,” interrupted Bronn. “You don’t pay him.”

“Oh, then it’s much more than I give you in a year.”

Pod finally spoke. “They wouldn’t take it, my Lord.”

“Maybe they’re trying to curry favour with the new Master of Coin?” asked Bronn.

“Have you ever known a whore to turn down gold?” retorted Tyrion.

Sansa felt her eyebrows fly up. Had Tyrion given Pod money to go to a whorehouse?

“They’re happy enough to take it when I give it to them,” continued Tyrion.

Sansa felt something in her break. She wasn’t sure why — she didn’t want to sleep with Tyrion, she _definitely_ didn’t want to sleep with Tyrion — but it hurt to hear that he was sleeping with whores. She was his wife. Married men aren’t supposed to visit whores. 

She blinked, trying to force the tears back down. 

_You should be grateful he’s keeping his word and not forcing you to sleep with him,_ she scolded herself. _You’re just a silly little girl, and he’s a man with needs. Of course he’ll go to whores if you won’t let him sleep with you. His father said he was still sleeping with whores, remember? You wondered if Tyrion’s sudden desire to go to Casterly Rock was because he’d gotten some other woman pregnant with his bastard._ She felt so foolish.

“What did you tell them?” asked Bronn.

“I didn’t tell them anything.”

“What did you do to them?” asked Tyrion.

“Lots of things,” said Pod.

“And they seemed to...like these things?” asked Tyrion.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Of course they seemed to like it. They’re paid to seem to like it,” said Bronn.

“Only...they weren’t paid,” said Tyrion.

“What are you saying? That these ladies enjoyed him so much they gave him their time for free?”

“Is that what you’re telling us, Pod?” asked Tyrion.

There was a silence, then the sound of the purse hitting the table again.

“Sit down Podrick,” commanded Tyrion. “We’re going to need details. Copious details.”

Sansa didn’t want to hear. Quietly, she packed up her sewing and moved to sneak indoors without disturbing the men in Tyrion’s office. She gestured to Aly, but her handmaiden shook her head. There was a wicked smile dancing on Aly’s lips and she gestured that she was fine where she was. Sansa shrugged, and left Aly to her eavesdropping.

If Tyrion was sleeping with others...maybe he didn’t need her in King’s Landing for emotional support. And if Lord Baelish was leaving King’s Landing...maybe she should leave with him. He had promised to take her home, after all.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Margaery sent a runner to ask if Sansa wanted to visit the poor of King’s Landing with her. Happy for anything that got her out of the Red Keep, Sansa leapt at the chance. Tyrion gave her a purse — she wondered if it was the same one he’d given Pod — and assigned Bronn to be her personal guard.

Soon, Sansa was outside the walls of the Red Keep, breathing in the air of the city. It stunk of horse dung and sour milk, and of too many bodies squashed in too tightly. But to Sansa, it smelt of freedom.

It was a relatively small party — Lady Leonette was the only one of Margaery’s ladies to accompany them, and Bronn the only knight. There were a few guards in Red Cloaks keeping an eye on them, but to Sansa it seemed like she was free in a way she hadn’t been in years.

It was quite the giddy feeling. She had to stop herself from rushing off, for no reason other than the fact that there was basically no one to stop her.

Sansa soon found that Margaery was serious about visiting the orphanages and poorhouses of the city. She had brought a cart load of oranges to distribute, as well as purses of coins to cover the orphanages expenses. Margaery could discuss the minutiae of managing almhouses and orphanages with the Septas and Matrons that ran them for hours. This, Sansa was not so interested in. She knew that many of Varys’ little birds came from this area of King’s Landing — small children were able to go many places that adults could not, and were often ignored.

She wanted little birds of her own. So she took a small complement of guards (and Bronn) and struck out for the slightly nicer areas of town around Cobbler’s Square. She wanted to purchase some new books, and clothes, and shoes.

And informants.

Sansa knew it would take time to build up a network. She wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be in King’s Landing — Lord Baelish still hadn’t elaborated on his promises of “soon” but now that he was no longer Master of Coin she suspected he’d run out excuses to stay in town before much longer — but she wanted to start creating some contacts while she was still here. It didn’t help she was still largely restricted to the Red Keep. But she was determined to do what she could while she could.

That day, she mostly sought to make contact with as many of the artisans and merchants in the area around Cobbler’s Square and Green Street as she could. She’d studied the demographics and the layout of the city; Cobbler’s Square was home to middle-class merchants, and Green Street was where produce that entered the city via the Kingsroad was sold to rich households. It was a prosperous area, full of people whose livelihoods depended on trade. People who would know the gossip of the rich who lived between Old Gate and the Hill of Rhaenys, as well as the gossip of those unfortunates who lived in Flea Bottom. The first thing she had to do was get to know them — to win their trust. She remembered the hate of the crowd when they rioted — they were starving, and her clothes would have kept them in food for a year. Sansa was determined not to be that naive ever again.

So she browsed. She asked questions. She asked women about the children they were minding, and gave them coin to buy them a treat. She talked to a leather worker who did detailed embossing work (far finer than what Pod had managed to do on the cover of Tyrion’s book), and commissioned him to make a belt for Tyrion for the Royal Wedding. She spoke to cobblers, flower merchants, bakers, and weavers. Sansa learnt to make a crown out of flowers from a young girl, and laughed when the one she made fell apart the second Sansa put it on her head. She spoke to wine merchants (and purchased a small cask of Arbor gold for Tyrion) and jewellers (and bought a few things for herself). She spent time in various booksellers, and let all of them know she was interested in any books written by noble ladies — particularly if they were travel dialogues. She had learned a valuable lesson from her Westerladies — the books written by men and for men often didn’t explain a woman’s view of a place.

By the time her guard was getting twitchy and Bronn’s complaints had escalated from background noise to an actual whine, Sansa had learned the names and occupations of nearly twenty of those who worked and traded around Cobbler’s Square and Green Street. She had handed out coin, asked about how trade was going, and made friends with some of the young women working in the various shops.

As she was guided back along the Grand Walk to the Red Keep, Sansa was pleased with her day. A few more days like this and she would be well on her way to gaining informants. She didn’t have power to force people to be informants, and she didn’t have the money to buy them either. She had to appeal to people’s better natures — and make it seem like she was a silly little girl who was just interested in gossip.

Though continuing to bring treats for children and buying things from the merchants in Cobbler’s Square wouldn’t hurt.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Sansa found herself restless with mischief. The King had been gifted a fine new fighting dog from Lord Randyll Tarly, apparently as an apology for siding with Lord Renly in the early days of the war. Joffrey was beyond pleased with the dog, a heavy black and white dog with powerful jaws that the King had dubbed “Killer”. While her husband had banned dog fighting in King’s Landing when he was Hand (and Lord Tywin had never retracted the ban, or seemingly even noticed it’s existence), apparently Joffrey was wary enough of his grandfather to set out on a short trip with several young men for the small fort of Black Forest, ‘to inspect the troops stationed there’.

At least that’s what Lord Tyrion had heard at the Small Council and reported to Sansa over dinner that evening. The next day Sansa had checked with Lord Varys and discovered the real truth — and who was going with the King.

Margaery was staying in the Red Keep, and Loras was staying to guard her. Of more interest to Sansa was the fact that Ser Sarsfield was accompanying the King on his trip, along with several other young bucks known for their wild ways and ruined horses, so he’d be gone from the Red Keep for several days.

The group had early that morning. Sansa felt that if she was ever going to get revenge on Ser Sarsfield for laughing at her and Tyrion in the gardens, now would be the perfect opportunity.

Sansa and Aly got changed into old dresses and covered their distinctive hair. While Sansa was aware that Aly and her could sheep shift Ser Sarsfield’s bed all by themselves, it would be sensible to have a guard. So they quickly stopped by Tyrion’s office to borrow his squire. Tyrion had a funny look on his face when he asked what they wanted Pod for, but his expression cleared up and he smiled wickedly when Sansa answered that Pod may not know how to sew, but he does know how to stand guard. Laughing, he waved his squire away for the afternoon.

The first step, Sansa explained to her co-conspirators, was to figure out which dungheap was nearest to Ser Sarsfield’s rooms. Sansa had checked the list of assigned rooms that Lord Varys had in his office, and Ser Sarsfield had been assigned a small set of rooms near White Sword Tower. They scoped out the corridor containing his rooms, then set out to find the dungheap. And an empty sack.

They were in luck — the Kingsguard’s stables contained plenty of dung, several empty sacks, and a shovel. Sansa was distressed at the condition of the stables — they were dark and smelly and the great warhorses of the Kingsguard looked to be in bad condition — she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen any of them in the exercise yard or on parade. They were huge beasts — each fully eighteen hands high and capable of carrying a knight in full plate armour into battle — but their coats were dirty, their manes tangled, their eyes dull. Sansa had never really had an opinion on horses before — they were just a way to get from a to b, and were often flighty and difficult to control — but this wasn’t right.

As she and Aly held the sack open for Pod to shovel dung into, Sansa made a note to talk to Tyrion about this. She had no love for the Kingsguard, but their horses didn’t need to suffer for having terrible masters.

Once she’d judged they had enough dung, they snuck out of the stables and into the corridor containing Ser Sarsfield’s rooms. Sansa told Aly and Pod to keep watch while she knelt down and examined the lock of Ser Sarsfield’s rooms. It was one of the most basic locks used here at the Red Keep as these were rooms for low-ranking nobles who weren’t expected to have anything of value.

It was also a type of lock Varys had taught Sansa to pick in one of her very first lessons. She fished her set of lockpicks out from the bodice of her dress (causing Pod to blush and hurriedly turn so he was looking down the hallway) and set to work.

A few minutes later, she felt a thrill of satisfaction as the tumblers in the lock clicked and the door swung open.

“How do you know how to do that?” asked Pod

“A lady never kisses and tells, Podrick,” said Sansa as she gathered up the sack and ushered Aly into the room. “Now, stand guard and whistle if anyone comes down the corridor.”

Sansa and Aly both wrinkled their noses as they took in Ser Sarsfield’s rooms. They were a pigsty. There was a discarded chicken carcass left on the table, and clothes scattered around everywhere.

“Will he notice the change in the smell?” asked Aly.

“Perhaps not, but I’ll feel better,” said Sansa.

Gingerly, they put the sack down near the bed and looked at the messy sheets on the bed. Sansa was glad they had thought to wear gloves for today’s task, but had naively thought that the dung would be the grossest thing they would have to deal with. For a brief moment, Sansa wondered if they should just shove the sack under the bed and call it a day, but that would be too easy to discover.

They had to cut open the mattress.

Aly took off her headscarf and tied it around her nose and mouth. “It cuts out the worst of the smell, my lady,” she said in answer to Sansa’s confused look.

Sansa tried it and found it was true — since she’d been wearing the headscarf for a while, it smelt of her lemon hair treatment, which was far preferable to the musty smell of Ser Sarsfield’s rooms.

“I can’t believe he manages to get women to come here with him,” Sansa remarked to Aly as they began to strip the bed.

“I imagine they only come once, and find someone else after that. Either that, or he doesn’t give them a choice.”

They shared a dark look and then started slicing a series of short cuts all over the mattress. They stuffed each one full of dung, then pulled off their gloves and sewed the mattress up. They stitched the final cut up together and put the bed back the way they’d found it. Sansa was grateful for the number of lessons Varys had given her about how to make sure to leave no trace of her presence. By the time they were done, Ser Sarsfield’s rooms looked just as they had before they’d visited — but smelled much worse.


	6. Firethorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stop delaying and bed the girl. Or I’ll have someone else do it. She needs to have a Lannister child — if you won’t get one on her, maybe I will. Or perhaps Joffrey would like the pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit I’m out of beer.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S03E05 ‘Kissed by Fire’, and there is a nod to S03E07 ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’. And credit for “lacks tailoring” goes to Gail Carriger. If you haven’t read her Finishing School books yet you totally should — partially because they are hilarious and amazing, and partially because I’m thinking of writing a Sansa/Margaery and Arya/Gendry story somewhat based off the idea of a floating steampunk school for lady assassins (let me know in the comments if you like this idea!).
> 
> Math time! According to the ASOIAF Wiki, Tyrion was born in 273 AC, and the Battle of Blackwater happened in 299 AC. That would make Tyrion around 26 at the time of the Battle. By this chapter, several months have passed since the Battle, and Tyrion has had a birthday. So I’m putting his at age 27. Peter Dinklage, while very handsome, is actually much older than Tyrion should be. Thus ends class; all bribes for better grades are accepted.
> 
> Also according to the ASOIAF Wiki, several of Margaery’s attendants are married when they come with her to King’s Landing. That is not the case in this fic — they are all single, and all in their mid- to late-teens.
> 
> Trigger warning: a character purposefully cuts herself in this chapter. They aren’t suicidal, they just need the blood for something. If this is problematic for you, skip from “Aly started to laugh” to “Aly...thank you.”

Tyrion frowned as he and Sansa were ushered into his father's office. He wasn't sure why they were being summoned — he'd had the Crown's books for only a matter of days, and Littlefinger hadn't even left King's Landing yet. Sansa had accompanied Lady Margaery on several trips into King’s Landing, but he hadn't heard anything out of the ordinary about them. Bronn had accompanied Sansa each time and he reported that the trips were stultifyingly boring and had tried to get out of them in future. Tyrion had held firm though — he remembered how easily he'd lost his wife in the Riot, and he wanted the best swordsman he knew to keep her safe. If Jaime was in King's Landing he'd try to get him to accompany Sansa, but he was... somewhere. No one really knew where.

Theirs may not be the most typical of marriages, but Sansa was under his protection. He'd let that lapse a few times already and wasn't willing to let it happen again. Her safety was a matter of his honour, and he wasn't going to let it be besmirched.

Again. Or even more. He wasn’t sure exactly how much honour he had, or just how tarnished it was. Still, he was trying to do his best by Sansa.

It was rather unsettling to discover at his stage of life that he had a sense of honour, but he was smart enough to know he was getting more respect as the sober Master of Laws than the drunken Imp. People were listening to him, and he felt he was doing some good in the kingdom.

There was also the fact that Sansa was growing more beautiful and assured every day. The girl he had married was maturing into a clever, elegant young woman who had recently turned seventeen (he’d given her a pretty necklace of rubies for her Name Day), who was taking the starring role in many of his daydreams. There had been several mornings now that he'd woken in a... sensitive condition, wrapped around Sansa with his hands on her breasts and his member digging into her hip. Fortunately, after the first embarrassing time, his wife had gotten into the habit of doing nothing more than quirking her eyebrow at him and leaving the bed while he fled to the privy.

Once safely behind the locked door, he would frantically jack himself over imagined thoughts of her delicate hands on his member, her mouth on his, on how her firm breasts would feel under his hands, how her buttocks would fit into his grasp, how sweet her juices would taste, or how glorious she would look riding him to completion.

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably. These were not the thoughts to have around his father. And as Sansa had given him no sign that she wished to escalate their relationship…he should stop these thoughts. Sansa had kissed him twice more on the head since she'd given him his Name Day present. That was enough. He wasn't a monster to force her into a relationship she wasn't interested in. Or ready for. _She is still so very young,_ he thought.

Tywin frowned at them both and ordered them to sit. They obeyed with a quick look at each other.

 _Do you know why he's summoned us?_ her look said.

 _No idea,_ his said in return. Inwardly he was pleased that they had become close enough to be able to communicate silently like this.

“You've been married for over a year,” stated Tywin baldly.

Tyrion felt his stomach sink. If this was what his father led with…

“And yet there is no sign of a child,” finished Tywin.

Tyrion froze. He saw Sansa drop her gaze to her hands out of the corner of his eye.

Neither of them spoke. The silence dragged on.

“Why is this?” asked Tywin. “Do I need to explain the mechanics?”

“My Lord, I haven't yet…”

“Don't tell me you haven't flowered yet girl. Either you've flowered or your maid has a cycle that comes twice a month.”

Sansa blushed scarlet and Tyrion’s heart went out to her. This was excruciating.

Tywin pinned Tyrion with his gaze. “I knew you were a disappointment, but I thought you at least would have managed this.”

This time it was Tyrion's turn to flush — out of anger rather than embarrassment. Had he not defended the city? Carried out the duties of the Master of Laws with diligence and care, and done the same since he’d been appointed to the Master of Coins position?

Tywin seemed to perpetually view his son as Tyrion had been as a wild, lecherous 21 year old, rather than the careful, intelligent 27 year old he actually was these days.

Or at least, that he thought he was.

“Stop delaying and bed the girl. Or I’ll have someone else do it. She needs to have a Lannister child — if you won’t get one on her, maybe I will. Or perhaps Joffrey would like the pleasure.”

Tyrion was acutely aware that beside him, Sansa had gone so rigid he wasn’t sure she was still breathing.

“Dismissed.”

They left the room and walked back to their chambers together. Tyrion kept sending worried looks at Sansa — she looked like she might shake apart at any moment.

She swept into their rooms and went straight for the wine on the table. Tyrion shut the door gently behind him and rested his face on it. He’d given Sansa his word. She was starting to trust him, starting to be affectionate. His father had just undone that all.

The sound of the empty cup hitting the table made Tyrion lift his head and turn around. The pitcher of wine was now empty, and Sansa was visibly swaying on her feet.

“Come to bed, husband,” she croaked. Her hands fumbled behind her for the ties of her dress. Her face was white with fear, and Tyrion felt his heart break. This wasn’t how he wanted to hear her say that. He wanted to hear his wife invite him into her bed with love, lust...excitement in her voice. Not with fear and dread.

“No, Sansa. No.”

“Tyrion, you must. Your father ordered -”

“If my father wants someone to get fucked, I know where he can start,” he bit out. “I promised you I would not, not until you were ready. Until you wanted me.”

“I do want you.”

Tyrion laughed, a short, bitter sound. “When you can say that without a pitcher of wine in your blood, without fear in your voice...then I’ll believe you. But not before then, my lady. Not before then.”

Sansa snatched up her empty glass and threw it at him with a scream of rage. He dodged just in time and it shattered against the door, then stared at her.

“I want you! I swear I want you!”

Carefully, he approached her. “No, Sansa, you don’t.” He reached her side and placed a careful hand on her arm.

Sansa collapsed to her knees in tears in front of him. Tyrion noticed she’d managed to undo enough of her dress that it was slipping off one shoulder, and gently he drew it back up and brushed her hair back from her face.

“I want you more than I want your father. Or your nephew.”

“That doesn’t mean you actually want me.” _Damn my logic,_ thought Tyrion. _Your wife is literally on her knees, begging for you to fuck her, and you’re saying no out of some misguided notion of honour._

He found his handkerchief and used it to wipe her tears. “We’re smart people, Sansa. We’ll think of something.”

She looked up at him with tears sparkling on her lashes. Her mouth was just inches away from his, and it took all of Tyrion’s willpower not to close this distance and kiss her.

Just as he was about to pull himself away, the door to their rooms opened and Aly entered. The handmaiden then froze, taking in the scene: the empty pitcher of wine, the shattered glass on the floor, and Sansa, crying, on her knees in front of Tyrion.

Aly bristled, and Tyrion fancied she’d just grown twice as large. “What did you do?” she snapped, her hand going to the small knife she kept on her belt.

Hurriedly Tyrion raised his hands. “Nothing! I did nothing!” He went to stumble backwards and tripped over Sansa’s skirts, landing hard on the stone floor.

The look on his face must have been comical, because Sansa started to giggle. Which soon turned into hysterical laughter as she sat back on her heels, holding her dress closed with one hand and covering her eyes with the other.

“Your face! Oh, your face!” she hiccuped.

Tyrion cautiously stood, rubbing at his bruised tailbone. Falling flat on his arse while being threatened by a handmaiden wasn’t something he particularly wanted to be known for, but if it meant his wife was hysterical with laughter rather than hysterical with tears he’d dust off the tumbling skills his uncle had taught him as a boy and cartwheel into as many walls as his wife wanted.

Eventually, Sansa’s laughter died down, and Aly helped her to the chair then started to fix her dress and hair. While Aly reassured herself that Sansa was uninjured, Tyrion busied himself by picking up the larger bits of glass scattered across the floor.

“Lord Tywin has decreed that Tyrion and I must sleep together,” murmured Sansa to Aly. Tyrion was surprised Sansa was telling Aly this — he didn’t know Sansa was so close to her handmaiden. Then again, he had long treated Bronn more like a friend than the hired sword he actually was. Maybe it was the same for Sansa and her handmaiden.

“But you do sleep together. There’s only one bed here,” whispered Aly in response.

“No, he said we had to...you know.” Sansa shrugged.

“You haven’t?”

“No!” exclaimed Sansa. “I don’t want to, I’m still a…no. No we haven’t.”

Aly looked curiously at Tyrion, who gave up pretending not to listen to their conversation and shrugged. “I’m not willing to sleep with someone who hasn’t actively invited me into her bed. I await Sansa’s invitation.”

“But if I don’t sleep with him,” explained Sansa to Aly, “Lord Tywin threatened to sleep with me himself. Or give me to Joffrey.”

At that, Aly went white. “Surely not?”

Sansa nodded. “So I have to sleep with him. At least we’ve been spared a bedding ceremony, but he’ll want proof or something.”

“Proof?”

“Women are supposed to bleed their first time, aren’t they? I imagine he’ll want the sheets from our bed as proof.”

Aly started to laugh. “Well, that’s easy enough to fake!”

She walked over to the bed and flipped the covers up. She looked back at Sansa, seemingly gauging her height, the lay on the bed and raised her skirt. Tyrion averted his eyes, but heard Aly draw her knife from its sheath, and then a sharp gasp of pain.

“Aly!” cried Sansa as she stood in a flurry of skirts. “What are you doing?”

Tyrion risked a look and saw Aly was bleeding on the sheets of the bed from a cut on her thigh. He swore and scrambled for the chest containing his shirts and hurriedly tore one into strips. He passed them to Sansa who frantically started to tie them around Aly’s leg, staunching the blood.

“You foolish girl!” yelled Tyrion once the bleeding had mostly stopped. “You didn’t have to do that! A girl loses very little blood her first time — you could have just pricked your finger! Seven Hells, any of us could have just pricked our finger and it would have been enough!”

Aly looked mulish. “They’d have noticed if either of you were bandaged tomorrow, even a finger. I’m a handmaiden. No one notices bandages on a handmaiden, not in this castle.”

Tyrion closed his mouth with a snap. That was...probably true. He would have a quiet word with the Seneschal. It wasn’t right if handmaidens were getting hurt. They were doing their jobs, they shouldn’t be bleeding because of it.

Sansa was fussing over Aly on the bed, who still looked relatively pale.

“I’ll go...I’ll go find Pod. And our dinner. Aly...thank you.”

He bowed his head to his wife’s foolish handmaiden and left the rooms, quietly shutting the door behind him. Hopefully Aly’s plan would work. Hopefully his father would be fooled.

Hopefully Aly wouldn’t tell anyone the truth.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Varys mentioned something odd to Sansa when she visited his office.

“One of my little birds told me something interesting, Lady Sansa.”

“I'm sure your little birds tell you many interesting things, Lord Varys,” Sansa replied as she seated herself at the small desk that had become hers since Varys had judged her good enough to start decoding actual reports from his little birds around the Realm and further afield. There was even one report she'd decoded from Qarth which Varys had been very excited about. She wasn’t sure why — all it said was “she lives”. There were more reports for her to decode today, and she unrolled the first scroll absently, recognising which cypher she would need to use from the small drawing of a tulip in the top right corner of the scroll.

“This interesting thing was about Ser Sarsfield.”

Sansa didn’t flinch. She would swear on the grave of her father that she didn’t flinch. Instead, she raised an eyebrow. “Ser Sarsfield? Who is he?”

“You are becoming a much better liar, Sansa. I know you know who he is.”

At that, Sansa allowed herself a smile. “What did your little bird say about Ser Sarsfield?”

“Apparently he is having difficulty convincing the women of the Court to visit his rooms. Something about the smell?”

Sansa pulled open a draw of her desk and rummaged for a quill in an effort to hide her face.

“But you’d know nothing about that, would you Sansa? Or about how Lord Crakehall has suddenly had all his gambling debts called in at once? Last I heard, he’d bartered his warhorse for passage across the Narrow Sea. Seemingly he was fond of dicing with some...interesting types who were very keen all of a sudden to get their money back.”

“Is that so? Your little birds do tell you such interesting things.”

“They also told me that Littlefinger has made a curious decision regarding his ship that is to take him to Gulltown.”

“Oh?” Sansa gave up any pretence of focusing on her work and laid her quill down, finally looking Varys in the face. His face seemed concerned.

“Apparently, he’s ordered two featherbeds for his ship.”

“Two featherbeds? He must be taking someone important with him.”

“My little bird said it wasn’t one of his girls. Do you have any idea who he could be leaving King’s Landing with?”

Sansa took a deep breath. “I think he means to take me.”

Varys just looked at her.

“He mentioned something, the day Lady Margaery arrived at Court and was betrothed to the King. He said he could take me home.”

Varys’ face shifted. The bald man looked sad. “You miss your home.”

“I do, my Lord. Do you not miss yours?”

“I can barely remember mine, Sansa. I was born into slavery in Lys, and travelled around the Free Cities as a child. The first place I ever called home was Myr, and I was glad to leave it. King’s Landing is my home now. I have made it my home.”

“Winterfell is my home.” There was no quaver, no uncertainty in Sansa’s voice. She knew that no matter if she never saw it’s walls again, Winterfell would always be her home. She was a Stark of Winterfell, no matter who she was married to. She would always be a Stark of Winterfell. It was in her very blood, her bones, her spirit. “And I will return there, with Lord Baelish or without.”

 

* * *

 

“Gods boy, that’s enough! We’re not in a tavern,” snapped Lady Tyrell as she waved a hand at Pod.

“Pardon me, m-” Pod began before Lady Tyrell interrupted and shooed him away to fetch her some figs.

Tyrion thought about saying something in defence of his squire, but decided silence was the better part of valour.

No matter what Sansa thought of her, Olenna Tyrell scared the crap out of Tyrion. Always had. She’d come to Casterly Rock when he was just a boy — in retrospect, he wondered if there had been a flirtation between her and his father, a prospect that filled him with fear — and he’d been enthralled with her wit and sharp tongue.

Then she’d turned that sharp tongue on him and he’d run away in terror.

He was a grown man now. He shouldn’t be scared of her still.

She looked him straight in the eye and it was all Tyrion could do not to flinch. He was definitely still scared of her.

“To what do I owe this summons?”

“Thank you for seeing me, my Lady,” he opened. “Thank you for inviting my wife to dinner the other day. She speaks highly of both you and Lady Margaery.”

“Mmm. She’s a bit insipid, but she’s young. There’s still time for her to grow a spine,” Lady Tyrell said dismissively.

Tyrion tried not to bristle at the insult to his wife and changed tactic. “I’d hoped we might discuss a few financial matters.”

“I climbed all those steps to discuss financial matters?” said Lady Tyrell, her voice as dry as a drought-stricken riverbed.

“It’s the Royal Wedding,” said Tyrion before the conversation could go any further off course. “Now that I am Master of Coin, it falls to me to find the funds for the celebration. I’m told you had a hand in planning it?”

“Naturally,” said Lady Tyrell, looking proud.

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably. “It’s shaping up to be a very involved affair. I know my wife has been working on making her dress for several weeks now. The word extravagant has been used —”

“What good is the word extravagant if it can’t be used to describe a Royal Wedding?” interrupted Lady Tyrell.

“I understand that,” replied Tyrion. His tone was striving for dryness but he was worried that in the face of the Queen of Thorns he wasn’t quite up to it.

“Good.”

“But,” Tyrion continued, “as Master of Coin it falls on me to calculate the cost to the Crown. As of now, it’s a huge expense.”

“And?”

 _By the Gods, she’s going to make me beg, isn’t she?_ thought Tyrion. “And...we’re at war, Lady Tyrell. Our finances are stretched too thin to foot the costs of the extravagance alone.”

“Oh, yes, the war. I can’t think how it could have slipped my mind. What was it, twelve thousand infantrymen that House Tyrell has supplied? Eighteen hundred mounted lances, two thousand in support. Provisions, so the city might survive the winter. A million bushels of wheat, half a million bushels each of barley, oats and rye. Twenty thousand head of cattle, fifty thousand sheep. Now how were you going to lecture me on the cost of war?”

“We are very grateful for the support House Tyrell has given the Crown. We are in your debt.”

“Yes, you are.”

Tyrion tried to voice his request another way. “The Crown is grateful for the contributions you have made that are necessary for the preservation of the Realm, but...”

“As is a Royal Wedding,” Lady Tyrell interrupted firmly. “The people are hungry for more than just food. They crave distractions. And if we don’t provide them, they’ll create their own. And their distractions are likely to end with us being torn to pieces. A Royal Wedding is much safer, wouldn’t you say?”

The screams and rage of the crowd that had rioted the day that Myrcella left for Dorne flashed through Tyrion’s mind, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He still remembered the terror he’d felt when he hadn’t been able to find Sansa. How much worse would it be now that she was becoming so dear to him?

“I would,” he agreed. Tyrion took a sip of wine in the hope of chasing away the remembered terror clogging the back of his throat.

“And traditionally paid for by the Royal family,” chirped Lady Tyrell with a sly smile as the door opened and Pod returned.

Tyrion looked up and glowered at her. He knew when he was beaten.

“I was told you were drunk, impertinent and thoroughly debauched. You can imagine my disappointment at finding nothing but a browbeaten bookkeeper.” Pod approached and presented the figs to Lady Tyrell. “About time. Where did you go for them, Volantis?”

“My Lady,” Tyrion started to say before being interrupted again.

“Oh, very well. I won’t have it said that House Tyrell refuses to play its part. We’ll pay for half the expenses and the celebrations will go on as planned. Is that sufficient?”

She stood and Tyrion scrambled to rise to his feet to farewell her. “Yes, my Lady, quite sufficient. Thank you.”

“Very good then. That’s settled. Good day.” Lady Tyrell swept out of the room, leaving Tyrion and Podrick staring after her.

“Podrick, remind me to never get on her bad side. Ever.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“What did you think of her?” Tyrion asked as he bit into a fig.

 

“She kind of reminded me of Lady Sansa, my Lord,” mused Pod.

Tyrion coughed his fig up onto the floor in shock.

 

* * *

 

It was a beautiful sunny day and Sansa and the Westerladies had joined Margaery and her ladies for the afternoon. They were picnicking in a grassy meadow at the edge of the Kingswood — which was where a number of the young knights of the Reach just happened to be practicing their fighting skills. Some without shirts. And with a rather large amount of flexing.

A few of the Western knights had joined them as well. Ser Addam (Lady Alysanne’s betrothed) was recovered from his injuries in the Battle of Blackwater, though was out of practice. A friendly afternoon sparing with the gallants of the Reach were just what the Maester ordered. Lady Alysanne was most appreciative of this, and let her friends know it. Ser Addam’s muscles gleamed in the hot afternoon sun, and although his movements were slow, he was very a skilled warrior.

Although the ladies had sewing with them in an attempt at modesty, most of it was dangling loosely from their hands, or had been cast down beside them in favour of nibbles and wine. Quite a lot of wine. It was a hot day and the ladies needed something to quench their...thirst.

Sansa was one of the few who was still actually sewing. While she would look up as the other ladies exclaimed over the handsomeness or the skill or the muscles of a particular man, she inevitably turned back to her sewing and left the ogling to her friends.

She was already married, after all. What was the point of looking when she wasn’t able to touch? Sometimes Sansa felt like the oldest seventeen-year-old in the world. Instead, she turned her thoughts to how she could leave King’s Landing if Littlefinger didn’t keep his promise. Every day she was stuck in the Red Keep, she felt a little more of her wither. She was dying, here in the southern sun. She wanted to go home, back to the cold North. She couldn't work out her feelings for Tyrion. Some days she left affectionate to him, other days she hated him for being one of her jailers. And she couldn't forget her feeling of betrayal when Tywin had said Tyrion was bedding whores...Sansa honestly didn't know what to think. The whole thing was confusing and she wished her mother was here to confide in. Seven hells, she almost wished she had Arya to confide in, if only for how awkward Arya's face would be when Sansa insisted on talking about _feelings_.

While her marriage was confusing, her lessons in spycraft were not. Sansa had managed to pick Lord Vary's pocket the other day without the spymaster noticing, and she was making good progress gaining some informants in the city. On her trip yesterday she’d heard that Lord Bolton’s son, Ramsey, had been sent to liberate Winterfell from Theon’s forces. She’d paid a young crofter a silver coin in exchange for the gossip, and once she had confirmed it was true she would pay him a second one.

The news worried her. She wasn’t sure she trusted the Boltons. She remembered how uncomfortable she felt when she’d studied them as part of her lessons with Maester Luwin. As a young girl, Sansa had been sure that a House with the sigil of a flayed man, the words _Our blades are sharp_ and a castle named ‘The Dreadfort’ were nothing but bad news. Hopefully she was wrong about this, and Ramsey would free Winterfell from the Ironborn and restore Bran’s rightful place as Lord of Winterfell. She missed Bran, and sweet Rickon. She hoped they were okay.

“Oh, look at Ser Armond! He is so quick with his sword!” exclaimed Lady Cerelle as the young knight from House Caswell used a fast, flashy movement with his sword to send Ser Addam’s sword flying. Ser Addam raised his hands and yielded, while Ser Armond fetched the fallen sword and handed it back to Ser Addam, clapping him on the back as he did so.

“I wonder if he’s as quick with his other sword,” leered Lady Joanne. It took a second for it to sink in, but the ladies were all soon in peals of laughter once Lady Joanne’s meaning became clear to them. Lady Jeyne Fossoway looked confused, and Lady Cersei leaned over to explain it to her. Even Sansa managed a small chuckle, though she thought it was a very weak jest.

“Ser Addam seems skilled with his sword, Lady Alysanne. You must be looking forward to your wedding night.”

Lady Alysanne smiled sweetly. “As a proper young lady, of course I have no practical experience with Ser Addam’s...swordwork,” she finished primly as the others giggled. “But from the odd meeting on a balcony shaded from view...I am most definitely looking forward to my wedding night. And the morning after. And many more nights and mornings and maybe even afternoons after that.”

Lady Joanne leaned over and tapped their drinks together, and Lady Meredyth laughing called out a toast to Lady Alysanne and Ser Addam’s upcoming wedding. Sansa raised her glass and joined in the toast before returning to her sewing.

“Come to think of it, Lady Sansa, you’re the only married one of us,” mused Lady Margaery. “Tell us, is there any truth to the tales they tell us?”

Sansa looked up from her sewing. “What tales?”

“Of the wedding night! It is known that Lord Tyrion refused the bedding ceremony, but surely you still had a wedding night. Did it hurt?”

Sansa tried very hard to keep her hands relaxed on her sewing and her panic off her face. Her wedding night hadn’t hurt at all, but that’s not what these ladies were wanting to hear. _The best lies are those grounded in truth, Sansa,_ she remembered Varys teaching her.

“My wedding night didn’t hurt at all, Lady Margaery. My husband is very kind, and very gentle.”

“Your husband is rumoured to have had a lot of experience. That probably helps,” drawled Lady Taena.

Of all of Margaery’s ladies, Lady Taena was Sansa’s least favourite. The sultry dark-eyed beauty was always causing trouble, flirting with any man that moved (including those already married or betrothed) and dancing in the most provocative and scandalous manner. Next to her, Sansa felt like a child again, all elbows and gracelessness. Sansa decided to let a bit of her temper through.

“Well, Lady Taena, us women are complicated creatures. Pleasing us takes practice. I am fortunate enough to have a Lord husband who cares enough about me to treat me gently, and to make sure I am always...satisfied. I can only hope your dancing yields you the same.”

Sansa stared at the Myrish lady until Lady Taena looked down and away. Worried how Margaery would take her actions, Sansa cast a quick look at her friend, who smiled in response. Sansa wondered if Lady Taena’s behaviour sometimes irritated Margaery as well.

“What are men like, you know,” Lady Cersei gestured with her hands, “down there?” she whispered.

Sansa felt she was on firmer footing here. She had grown up with brothers, after all, and although she had not been intimate with Tyrion they were living in the same chambers and sleeping in the same bed. She’d snuck a peek or two, out of curiosity. Moreover, her husband often woke up in the morning with an erection, something that had mortified him the first time it happened. Sansa, not really sure what was happening, had largely ignored it and Tyrion had run for the privy as fast as he could. This pattern had repeated every time since, and Sansa now figured she had enough knowledge to answer this question at least. And it would help assuage any rumours remaining about whether she and Tyrion had slept together, in case the news about their bloody sheets hadn’t filtered back to Lord Tywin yet.

“Well, most of the time, unimpressive. They have sort of a...dangly sausage. Like it hasn’t been fitted into it’s casing properly.” All the other women were looking at her, their eyes goggling. Sansa put on her most long-suffering face and sighed. “Simply put, it lacks tailoring.”

 

* * *

 

The young knights of the Reach and West stopped flexing their muscles and looked over as the watching ladies fell over themselves in peals of laughter. Lady Meredyth had actually fallen out of her chair, while Lady Genna had dropped her sewing into a puddle of wine as she was laughing so hard. Even the beautiful, normally composed Lady Margaery was red in the face with tears running down her cheeks.

All of the women were in hysterics other than Lady Sansa, who kept sewing serenely, not even noticing the merriment around her.

“Brr, look at Lady Sansa. Not even a hint of laughter or warmth about her,” commented one.

“I know she’s from the North, but are they all made of ice up there?”

“Lord Tyrion must be a braver man than we guessed, lads,” said another. “He goes to bed with the Ice Princess every night. And as far as we know, nothing’s frozen off yet.”

Several of the smarter young knights privately vowed to themselves to treat Lord Tyrion slightly better in future. It hadn’t escaped their notice that those who insulted Lord Tyrion generally suffered minor, though unpleasant, retribution. After all, it was rumoured that the Imp had been valiant during the Battle of Blackwater, and if he was bold enough to bed the icy Lady Sansa each night...perhaps Lord Tyrion was braver than any of them had previously thought.


	7. Blackthorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am Lady Sansa, of House Lannister. In the name of my husband, Tyrion Lannister, Master of Coin, I welcome you to King’s Landing. Valar morghulis."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the books there is a character called Noho Dimittis, and I wanted to use him in this chapter. However, I kept mistyping his name. He is now Doho Dimittis — just think of him as Noho’s brother or something. Ferrego Antaryon is the current Sealord of Bravos according to _A Feast for Crows_ ; let’s say that Ferregi Antaryon is his youngest son and unlikely to become Sealord after his father dies.
> 
> Lord Oakbridge is a reference to Tamora Pierce’s _Page_ and is a mishmash of characters from that book (because it turns out I was remembering it wrong).
> 
> Also, my wonderful beta is down with the dreaded lurgy this week and hasn't been able to look through this chapter. If you find anything that you think needs fixing (spelling, grammar, a character picking up something they already hold...) please let me know in the comments :-)

“There is one other matter, my Lords,” warbled Grand Maester Pycelle as the Small Council meeting came to an end. The Maester unrolled a scroll, his hands shaking, and summarised the solution.

House Staunton was tearing itself apart — Lord Staunton had died suddenly and without clear issue — he had two half-brothers, and two bastard sons, and no one was exactly sure who was supposed to be the next Lord of Rook’s Rest. The Houses surrounding Rook’s Rest, as well as the Maester serving Rook’s Rest, had sent a raven requesting the Master of Laws visit Rook’s Rest and decide who should inherit. House Staunton was one of the few Houses within the Crownlands that hadn’t declared for Stannis in the recent conflict, and Lord Tywin was minded to acquiesce to their request. Rook’s Rest was a decent port, and having a loyal House there would help them keep an eye on what Stannis decided to do since he’d been defeated in the Battle of Blackwater Bay.

Tyrion argued back, half-heartedly, saying that surely with the Royal Wedding approaching his duties as Master of Coin were more important than his duties as Master of Laws. He privately considered that it would be nice to leave King’s Landing, but he was concerned this could be a trap. Rook’s Rest was close to the Riverlands, after all, and they were still loyal to the Starks. He may not be a very important Lannister, but he was still a Lannister. What if this was a way to lure him and his wife closer to the Riverlands? They could capture or kill him, and return his wife to her family.

Given the hell that his nephew had put Sansa through, and how his father had recently treated her over the fact she wasn’t with child… _Maybe being kidnapped by Stark allies wouldn’t be the worst that could happen to us,_ he thought. _I am sure Sansa would speak in my favour, and make sure I am treated better than my family has treated her. She is as kind and as honourable as she is beautiful. Perhaps I should leave Bronn here — if we are going to be ‘kidnapped’ he could be a little too effective in protecting us._

Tyrion’s half-hearted arguments were dismissed by his father, however, who declared: “This is clearly an urgent matter. You will sail for Rook’s Rest on tomorrow’s high tide.”

“That doesn’t leave much time for us to get packed, select our guards -”

“Us?” enquired Lord Tywin icily.

“Lady Sansa and myself. Surely you do not expect her to be able to pack in less than a day? You know how women are with their trinkets.”

“Lady Sansa is not to leave King’s Landing. You can take some guards, in case this is a trap, but Lady Sansa will stay here. Rook’s Rest is too close to the Riverlands to risk her. We will need her to take Winterfell.”

“Aren’t the Boltons marching on Winterfell to take it back for the Starks? How do you plan to take it from them?”

“Leave the Boltons to me. You have a ship to catch.” With that, Tywin stood from his chair and ended the Small Council meeting.

Tyrion sighed, and got up to find Bronn and Pod. They would need to pack in a hurry. Fortunately most of the Royal Navy’s ships had been spared in the Battle, and they could commission one of those for the journey to Rook’s Rest. They were on the Crown’s business, after all.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Sansa accompanied Tyrion to the dock that his ship was due to leave from. She had been surprised when Tyrion had returned to their chambers with the news that he was leaving King’s Landing on urgent Master of Laws business, but he expected to return within the month.

Sansa wasn’t sure what she was going to do for a month. She was used to Tyrion’s company — to his amusing comments, his kindness, his neck massages. Recently she’d started having thoughts about where else he could put his hands. He wasn’t the dashing knight she’d dreamed of as a young girl, but he was kind. He made her laugh. And if he was as skilled with lovemaking as the rumours said...Sansa knew she could definitely do worse. She didn’t think she was truly in love with Tyrion yet, but she had a deep affection for him. If she was unable to leave King’s Landing and return home within a year or two, well, maybe…

She’d helped him pack, and then this morning had helped Podrick pack as well. Tyrion was planning on taking Bronn with him, however this morning the sellsword had been violently ill. The Maester treating him had forbidden an ocean voyage, so Pod was going in his place.

Sansa and Aly stood out of the way as they watched the chaos of the wharf. Burly porters carried Tyrion and Pod’s things up the gangway to the ships. Tyrion was taking several trunks of books with him — treatises on inheritance law in the Crownlands, in greater Westeros, histories of House Staunton.

“I expect they will have some of these, particularly the histories,” he’d told her as she’d helped get the books he wanted down from the higher shelves in his office. “But I also expect someone will have tampered with them to ensure they get the result they want. By bringing my own copies I can make sure they haven’t been altered to support one candidate over the other.”

Sansa had stayed up late that night sewing — the official robes of state of the Master of Laws had not been made with someone of Tyrion’s proportions in mind. Aly had helped her, as had Lady Genna and Margaery’s preferred seamstress. Sansa had embroidered the crowned lion that would sit over Tyrion’s heart when he was in his full robes herself just this morning. Her fingers and back ached, but they had gotten it done. If the work wasn’t as perfect as what they could produce given unlimited time, it was certainly suitable for passing judgement on House Staunton of Rook’s Rest.

Rolling her aching shoulders back and flexing her sore fingers, Sansa decided the first thing she would do with her husband gone was take a nice long bath. And then a nap.

Finally, all of the luggage was loaded, and the crew made ready to sail. Tyrion left off from supervising the preparations and walked over to Sansa to say goodbye. Aly withdrew slightly to make her own farewells to Pod. Tyrion raised an eyebrow at seeing them talking softly together, and Sansa nodded. She had suspected there was something budding between her handmaiden and her husband’s squire — and perhaps with both Tyrion and Pod out of the way for a few weeks she could finally corner Aly and get the truth out of her.

“Travel safe, my Lord,” said Sansa as Tyrion took her hands.

“I will try to, Sansa. Enjoy the peace and quiet without me under your feet.”

“You’re never under my feet, Tyrion.”

“Sansa...Rook’s Rest is close to the Riverlands. There may be a chance I can pass a message to your family for you.”

Sansa sucked in a sharp breath. “Really, Tyrion? You’d do that for me?”

“Yes, Sansa, I would. Is there anything you would want me to pass on?”

“Please tell them I miss them. I miss them, and I hope to see them again.” Sansa cut off the word ‘soon’ that was pressing on her tongue. She wanted to let them know that she was planning to see them soon, but she didn’t want Tyrion to know she was planning on leaving King’s Landing. He was too noble, too kind. He’d try to stop her.

“I will, my Lady. If I can, I promise I will pass on your message.”

Sansa gathered her skirts and knelt in front of Tyrion, holding his face in her hands. “Thank you, Tyrion.”

She leaned in and kissed him, very quickly, on his lips.

Tyrion sucked in a breath and looked shocked before his mouth stretched into a smile.

“If that’s the thanks I get for passing messages, maybe I should play messenger boy more often.”

Sansa laughed as she got to her feet. “You never know, Tyrion. Let’s see what happens if you pass this message on.”

Sansa winked at Tyrion and turned to face the ship’s captain who had approached to inform them that they needed to cast off now or they would miss the tide.

Tyrion made a courtly bow at Sansa, and collected Pod then followed the captain on board.

Sansa and Aly stood and watched as the ship cast off. They waved back when Pod and Tyrion waved at them, and they decided to stay and watch the ship leave the harbour proper. The captain had to do some clever maneuvering at the harbour mouth — a Braavosi trading galley was working against the tides to enter the harbour. The two ships managed to pass each other, and Tyrion’s ship disappeared from view. Sansa and Aly stayed to watch the Braavosi galley dock at port. It was unusual for a Braavosi ship to come to King’s Landing, and Sansa knew Varys would want to know what she could discover about it.

Sansa and Aly drifted closer so they could better hear what was yelled between the sailors and the men on the docks. They couldn’t make much out, but suddenly a small boy bolted out of the crowd for the Harbourmaster’s office. Another made to go for the castle, but skidded to a stop when he saw Sansa.

“Lady Lannister! You must come at once!”

Sansa and Aly shared a concerned look before picking up their skirts and walking briskly towards the ship.

They were met there by the Harbourmaster, a gruff old sailor who had been given the post after a long career in the Royal Navy.

“Lady Lannister, do you have any way to call your husband back from his journey?”

Sansa just stared at the Harbourmaster. “No, ser. Isn’t there some form of beacon you normally use to hail ships?”

“There was, but it was damaged in the Battle and has not yet been fixed. We have sent to the Citadel for a Maester who knows how to make the mirror, but…”

Sansa nodded in understanding. “Travel between the Citadel and King’s Landing is still difficult. Why does my husband need to be called back?”

The Harbourmaster gestured at the Braavosi galley, where an important looking man draped in an elaborate cloak was descending the gangway.

“This man is Doho Dimittis of the Iron Bank. He wishes to speak to the Master of Coin.”

Sansa just stared at the Harbourmaster. “But the Master of Coin is gone.”

“Left a few minutes ago, yes. Which is why I was hoping you could call him back.”

“Oh, Seven _Hells_ ,” cursed Sansa softly. Tyrion was due to be away for a month. Littlefinger had already left for the Eyrie. She hoped Lord Tywin would be able to resolve whatever matter Doho Dimittis had come to King's Landing for. As the closest member of the extended Royal Family to the docks, it was her responsibility to escort the Braavosi to the Red Keep and see that they were appropriately greeted. Sansa shook her shoulders back and raised her chin. _Time to see how well mother’s lessons in being a great lady hold up to welcoming foreign dignitaries,_ she thought.

“Harbourmaster, may I borrow your runners?”

The Harbourmaster nodded at Sansa and gestured for the young boys who served as runners in the port to gather around.

“I will need three of you for now. You and you, run for the Hand and the Queen Regent. Tell them that Doho Dimittis of the Iron Bank has arrived on official business. I will wait for his party to fully disembark and escort them to the Red Keep. I presume after the journey they will want to refresh themselves before being presented to the King. You,” she gestured to another runner, “are to go for the Seneschal of the Keep. Tell him that a party of Braavosi noblemen have arrived and need to be housed in suitable accommodations. There are —” Sansa raised her raised and scanned what she could of the men aboard the ship “at least five noblemen, as well as their men at arms. I will send another runner once I know their numbers for sure.”

The boys bowed at her and bolted for the Keep, nimbly dodging around the chaos of the wharf and heading up the hill at speed. Sansa watched them go and turned to face the Harbourmaster again.

“Hopefully the Seneschal will be able to work his magic and find suitable accommodation for an unexpected party of Braavosi noblemen, although knowing Lord Oakbridge he is likely pulling at his hair right now and cursing us all.”

The Harbourmaster chuckled. “I’ll see that the sailors are directed to reputable hostels here in port. At least with Braavosi sailors we know they will have the gold to pay the harbour fees and their lodging.”

Sansa hummed in agreement as she and the Harbourmaster approached the gangplank the Braavosi were disembarking down. Doho Dimittis was a tall man, with blonde hair cut short and artfully styled and striking green eyes. Sansa guessed he was probably slightly younger than Tyrion — perhaps in his mid-20s.

The other four noblemen who accompanied him were of a similar age, though they all looked very different. There was one with a shock of bright red hair, and another with a sword slung low on his hips that had a tidy moustache and gently waving black hair that brushed against his shoulders. He walked gracefully, and although some of the others wore swords, Sansa was fairly sure this was a bravos, skilled with a sword and here to serve as Doho Dimittris’ bodyguard. His clothing was much flashier than the others’, and Sansa remembered from her studies that this was a mark of a bravos.

The Braavosi stopped in front of her, and Sansa dipped into a curtsey, her head graciously lowered. For a moment there, she thought she heard her mother’s voice from the hours of lessons Catelyn had given her: _For a nobleman from Essos, this is the appropriate depth of curtsey for a great lady to give…_ The Harbourmaster made his bow also.

“My Lord Dimittris, welcome. I am Lady Sansa, of House Lannister. In the name of my husband, Tyrion Lannister, Master of Coin, I welcome you to King’s Landing. Valar morghulis.” Sansa was proud she had remembered the formal Braavosi greeting that she had learned since coming to King’s Landing. Varys had been very particular that she should learn the basics of High Valyrian, even though she did not find languages easy.

“Greetings, Lady Lannister,” bowed Doho Dimittris. “Valar dohaeris. We apologise for coming unannounced, but the Iron Bank likes to make unscheduled inspections of it’s investments from time to time. The time has come for the Bank’s investment in the Baratheon dynasty to be...inspected.”

“I trust you will find everything in order, my Lord,” said Sansa. She was sure that Lord Baelish and now her husband had the Crown’s finances in excellent order. “Rooms are being prepared in the Red Keep for you and your men. If you will accompany me?”

She led the party up The Hook, pointing out interesting sights of King’s Landing as the party climbed Aegon’s High Hill towards the Red Keep, the porters sweating behind them as they lugged the Braavosis’ baggage up the slope. The Braavosi were politely interested in what she had to say, but Sansa was conscious that she was just a silly little girl. She hoped that once she got to the Red Keep Lord Tywin would take the visitors off her hands, and she could go back to working on her dress for Margaery’s wedding.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Sansa and the Westerladies decided to watch the formal reception of the Braavosi contingent to King’s Landing and gathered in the colonnade to watch. It was the best place to view the goings on in the Throne Room, Sansa had realised. You were apart from the crowd, and could easily see both the crowd (including those at the back who may not wish to be seen) as well as the King and his advisors on the dias.

The Braavosi entered with much pomp and circumstance, their somber grey cloaks flashy with gold and silver embroidery. “Doho Dimittris of the Iron Bank of Braavos!” called the Herald as the Braavosi approached the dias. They stopped a polite distance from the throne and swept into flashy Braavosi bows.

Sansa noted with interest that they were unarmed, though she was fairly sure the one she’d marked as a bodyguard still had a blade or two hidden around his person. There was something in the way he moved...

“Oh, look at those patterns! I wonder if we can get access to one of those cloaks to study them closer…” said Lady Genna.

“Well, there’s one way to get access to a man’s cloak,” said Lady Joanne with a wink.

“Lady Joanne!” gasped Lady Genna. “You know that’s not what I meant! I just wanted to look at the patterns. I’m sure Lady Margaery doesn’t have any patterns this fine. It would be nice to show her up for once.”

“I’m sure we can ask the Braavosi if we may study their cloaks,” said Sansa. “They seemed very kind when I was bringing them to the Keep yesterday.” Although the Westerladies and the Highgarden ladies generally got on very well with each other, there were sometimes minor clashes of personality between the ladies — and sometimes within the factions. Sansa and Margaery had both gotten very good at steering the conversation away from potential viper’s nests and onto safer ground.

They both considered it good training for their married lives, as they would both need as much diplomacy as they could muster. They were both well aware that Margaery, as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, would need often need to use diplomacy to smooth over any upsets Joffrey caused, while Sansa thought that given Lord Tyrion’s penchant for drinking and generally being imprudent in his conversation she would also have a fair number of upsets to smooth over in her life.

Speaking of upsets, it looked as if the King was well on his way to causing an international incident.

“Why have you come to King’s Landing, Braavosi?”

If Doho Dimittris was offended by the lack of formal greeting and the petulant tone of the King, he was too well trained to show it. “From time to time the Iron Bank likes to inspect it’s investments. The time has come for our investment in the Baratheon reign to be inspected,” said the Braavosi with an easy smile.

“This is a matter for the Master of Coin, not the King,” said Joffrey dismissively.

“Ah, so I shall talk with the Master of Coin! Where is he?”

“The Master of Coin has been called away on urgent business, and is not expected to return for a month.”

That news caused Doho Dimittris’ smile to falter slightly. “A month? Is there no way to call him back sooner? A month is longer than I had planned to be away from Braavos.”

The Queen Regent spoke up from her elaborate chair. “The Master of Coin follows the orders of the King, not some moneylender. You will have to wait. In the meantime, I am sure the Master of Coin’s wife will be happy to...entertain you in his absence.”

Cersei gestured up to where Sansa and the Westerladies were standing in the colonnade. Sansa dipped into her curtsey, and began to make her way onto the main floor of the Throne Room, her Westerladies falling into step behind her.

“We leave you in Lady Sansa’s capable hands,” said the Queen Regent with a cruel smile, before she tipped back her glass of wine. “You may go. The King has Westerosi business to attend to, which you needn’t stay for.”

Doho Dimittris looked between Sansa, the King, and Queen Regent, his gaze clearly puzzled. He slowly bowed to the dias. “Of course, Your Majesty. Valar morghulis.”

When he straightened from his bow, he offered his arm to Sansa. “Tell me, Lady Lannister. What does one do for fun around here?”

As Sansa and Doho Dimittris led the Braavosi and the Westerladies out of the Throne Room, Sansa realised she had no idea what the young noblemen of King’s Landing did for fun. She wished Tyrion was here. She would have to learn what entertainments the Braavosi thought highly of, and she would have to learn fast.

 _Thank the Seven Margaery and Loras are here,_ she thought. _They’ll help entertain the Braavosi until Tyrion is back, I am sure of it. I must send a raven to Rook’s Rest to let Tyrion know a representative from the Iron Bank is here. He musn’t dawdle overlong there. I have no idea how to keep these men entertained for so long without him...I must talk with Varys. He’d know how to use this to best advantage._

 

* * *

 

The visiting Braavosi kept Sansa hopping over the next few days, and she was never more grateful for the friends she had in King’s Landing as she was at those times. Varys fed her as much intelligence about the young men as he could gather and ensured she knew the correct Braavosi etiquette to avoid giving offence, while Loras and Margaery helped her keep them entertained.

Sansa remembered overhearing the conversation between Bronn and her husband after he’d become Master of Coin — the Crown owed the Iron Bank tens of millions. While it was tempting to hope that if the Crown couldn’t pay back the Bank, the Bank would fund her brother in exchange, but it was far from a guarantee. Even if the Bank did decide to pull their funding from the Crown, there was still Stannis Baratheon to contend with. If Joffrey truly was a bastard and had no right to the Iron Throne, Stannis was Robert’s true heir. Sansa was well aware that Robb could never rule the South, even if he defeated the Lannisters and fetched up at the gates of the Red Keep to take her home. Robb belonged in the North, just like Sansa did. He would never understand life in the South, and Sansa was starting to believe that those who had never lived in the South could ever rule it.

Sansa had often found herself wondering if perhaps the Seven Kingdoms should not become individual kingdoms again. Let each kingdom rule independently. Let the North be independent again, let Dorne be independent again...it would solve a lot of the problems she could see in how first Robert and now Joffrey were trying to run things. Or rather, how Tywin was running things.

The Seven Kingdoms were just too big, too unwieldy.

 _Though,_ Sansa mused, _if they did want someone to rule both North and South, Tyrion and I wouldn’t be a stupid combination. Between us we have good ties to the North, the Riverlands, the Westerlands and potentially the Vale. That’s a sizeable part of Westeros under our control. We’d have the gold from the mines of the Westerlands, the Riverlands are as nearly as fertile as the Reach if not as well tended, and the wool, hides, timber and silver of the North are not to be sneezed at. Moreover, we’d have a firm border to hold, particularly if we had the support of the Vale...the Iron Islands would be a threat, but they had been beaten before. Perhaps the Greyjoys would be amenable to some form of bargain. Maybe a marriage?_ Sansa shook herself out of her thoughts. It was highly unlikely she would ever sit on the Iron Throne — best not waste her energy on maybes. She had guests to entertain. And she would soon be going home, and could forget all about the Lannisters and her time in King's Landing.

Today had been a quiet day, however. Although the Braavosi did not follow the Seven like the Westerosi did, they were respectful of the fact that for the Westerosi, Seventh Day was traditionally a day of rest and recreation. Therefore, nothing had been planned for today and everyone could have a rest, something Sansa was grateful for. Sansa felt like she had been nothing more than a whirlwind of social engagements since the Braavosi had arrived — parties, and dances, and hunting parties.

Lady Meredyth had taken them all out hunting the day before, mostly as a chance to show off her skills when hawking. Lady Meredyth was a skilled hawker, and one of the Braavosi, Ferregi Antaryon, was absolutely smitten with her. Sansa and Margaery weren’t sure what the Braavosi was interested in most — Lady Meredyth’s smile, charm, or skill with a hawk — but they had a small wager on whether Ferregi Antaryon would be leaving for Braavos alone at the end of the month — or even if he’d be leaving at all.

Sansa wasn’t comfortable with using a hawk to hunt — it wasn’t something that was common in the North — but she had taken her bow with her and managed to shoot down a fat partridge. The rest of the party had been very impressed, and Sansa was glad that Varys had helped her find somewhere to keep up her skills since the Hillmen had left.

For her dinner that evening, Sansa had requested the cooks in the Keep wrap her partridge in bacon and roast it, before serving it with a caramelised onion sauce. Although it was a fat partridge, it wasn’t enough to really share with her friends, so Sansa was looking forward to a quiet meal on her own. She’d even dismissed Aly for the evening, knowing that while there was a good chance the Queen Regent would order whoever waiting on Sansa to report back to her, her activities of having a quiet evening in her chambers while reading one of her husband’s many books (she was part of the way through Longstrider’s _Wonders Made by Man_ and could see why Tyrion had read it so often), was hardly likely to cause any concern with the Queen Regent.

If the most scandalous thing the Queen Regent’s spy could report is that Sansa liked to read, well...bully for the spy.

Sansa had just finished her dinner and was debating if she should change for bed or read for a bit longer beside the fire when there was a soft knock at the door.

She cracked the door open to find one of the Braavosi there. He was the one she’d assumed was Doho Dimittis’ bodyguard, based on the way he moved like a cat and the fact that any time she’d seen him he was always very well armed.

“Lady Lannister, valar morghulis. I hope I am not disturbing your evening?”

“Valar dohaeris, ser. May I help you?"

“I am Inigo Forel, the son of Syrio Forel. May I speak with you, in private?”

Sansa dipped her head and ushered Inigo into her rooms. The name Syrio tugged at something in her memories, but she wasn’t sure what.

“What were you wanting to speak to me about, Ser?”

“My father.”

“Your father?”

“Yes, Syrio Forel, the former First Sword of Braavos. He had served his term protecting the Sealord of Braavos, and wanted to explore the world before he was too old to find enjoyment in it. The last I heard from him, he was here in King’s Landing. He had been contracted to teach sword-fighting to a young noble, but I have not heard from him for some two years now.”

“You have my sympathies, Ser. I haven’t seen my father for nearly as long.”

“Is he also missing?”

“No, he was beheaded for being a traitor by my former betrothed. I haven’t seen him since my Lord Husband ordered his head removed from the Walls of the Keep and his remains shipped back to our home.”

Inigo closed his eyes as if in pain and softly touched his brow, his lips, and his heart. “Valar morghulis.”

“Indeed, Ser. I hope your father has not met the same fate.”

“So do I, my lady,” said the Braavosi. “My lady, I will come to the point: I want to find my father. Or at least discover what happened to him. Can you help?”

“Me?”

“Yes. You are Lady Lannister. You have been at Court for years; your husband used to be Hand and is now the Master of Laws and the Master of Coin both. Your titles and offices are different from ours, but in Braavos, you would not be the wife of such a powerful man without considerable intelligence and connections.”

“I…”

Inigo moved closer and pressed her hand. “My lady, this week you have shown yourself to be an elegant and accomplished hostess. You have dealt admirably with entertaining noble strangers who arrived without notice, and have made us feel most welcome. Whatever else we report to our masters at the Iron Bank, know that our reports of you are going to be nothing but favourable. Please, gentle lady. Help me find my father.”

Sansa stared at their joined hands, then up to Inigo’s beseeching brown eyes.

“Ser…”

“ _Please_ , Lady Lannister. Please. I just want to know what happened to him. I cannot help but think it is something terrible, for what else would have stopped him from writing to me?”

Sansa swallowed and nodded. “Very well, Ser. I cannot promise I will find anything, but I will make enquiries as much as I can.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Inigo. “ _Thank you_.”

He released her hands and bade her farewell. Just as he reached the door he looked back at her. “I hope that this will not cause you any troubles, my Lady.”

“Troubles?”

“I do not feel that your Westerosi culture would accept the presence of a strange man, in your quarters after dark? There are always people watching in this Keep, I feel.”

Sansa laughed mirthlessly. “You have clearly not been here for long enough if you do not know the story of how I came to be married. My virtue was judged nonexistent a long time ago. Ask around, you will hear how I trapped my husband into marriage by being caught with him in an abandoned room in a deserted corridor.”

Inigo stared at her for a long time. “King’s Landing is a strange place, my lady. This emphasis on virtue...it is well known in Braavos that a woman’s status is due to her accomplishments and manner, not her virtue. And then looking down on your for positioning yourself into a beneficial marriage with one of the most powerful families in the Kingdom? My lady, in Braavos you would be lauded for such a maneuver.”

Sansa was amazed. Life in Braavos sounded so different from what she knew.

“From what I can see,” continued Inigo, “You have no family here in King’s Landing — or perhaps no family at all, the rumours are confused. But you have managed to gain a powerful man as a husband, and are close friends with the Queen-to-be. For us Braavosi, that would be enough to mark you as one of the most powerful and intelligent women here in Westeros. But your power and intelligence have nothing on your kindness and grace. My lady, if you ever tire of King’s Landing…” he handed her an old, heavy iron coin. “Use that coin and come to Braavos. You would do well in our city, Lady Lannister.”


	8. Thistle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa turned to face Littlefinger. “Arya’s alive?” she breathed, her eyes widening. Sansa couldn’t believe it. After all this time! “Where is she?”
> 
> “At Harrenhal.”
> 
> “At Harrenhal? But...that’s where the Lannister army is based!” So her sister was a prisoner of the Lannisters after all. She wondered why she hadn’t been told - surely Cersei and Joffrey would love to torture her with that knowledge. Or was her husband trying to hide the information somehow?
> 
> Her husband the Lannister. She’d trusted him. She’d spoken up for him, helped get him his new position which he obviously enjoyed, and this was how he repaid her. By keeping news about her sister from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookie for whoever can spot the _Evita_ reference. Some dialogue taken from S03E05, ‘Kissed by Fire’.
> 
> This time, both my beta and I have been sick, so once again, if you spot any mistakes please let me know in the comments below.

The next morning, Sansa sought Varys’ advice on how she could track down a bravo who had been teaching swordfighting to a young nobleman in King’s Landing several years ago.

“Inigo said he has not heard from his father for two years. That would put his disappearance around the time of my father’s death.”

Varys hummed. “That could be an interesting time to try and find the fate of a person in. There was a lot of instability in a very short time two years ago, as I am sure you were well aware.”

Sansa nodded. “I was thinking of talking to the Seneschal, seeing if he found rooms for a Braavosi around that time. If this Ser Forel was not staying here at the Red Keep, then...things get more difficult. He would presumably be staying either near the Red Keep or somewhere near the Hill of Rhaenys. I could probably use Bronn to help me interview some of the boarding houses near there, or maybe some of the young knights waiting around here at Court. Or even Inigo himself — if he looks anything like his father, this could help jog people’s memories.”

“Well thought out, Sansa. You have a sound plan — start with the Senechal and see what you can find. I will also ask my little birds if they can remember anything, though if Syrio Forel did not leave the Red Keep they would not necessarily have encountered him.”

It took Sansa most of the rest of the morning to find Lord Oakbridge. In the end, she wasn’t able to find him, but she did track down his office, where there was a young assistant who quaked at seeing such a noble lady in the dusty bowels of the Keep.

Sansa smiled at the boy to try and put him at ease, but it didn’t seem to work. He just bowed lower.

“I am looking for a room assignment, for someone who was here in King’s Landing some two years ago. Would you be able to help?”

The boy bowed again, and scurried to a shelf in the back of the room where there were a number of thick books stacked haphazardly. The boy seemed to know what he was looking for, as after brushing his fingers over one or two he carefully pulled a large book from the pile and brought it over to the central table in the room.

“Do you know the name of the person, gentle Lady?”

“Syrio Forel. He was a Braavosi nobleman visiting.”

The boy quickly flicked through a few sections of the book, shaking his head as he went.

“There is no one listed by that name, gentle Lady. I am sorry.”

Sansa smiled again. “Thank you for your help.”

_So, he wasn’t staying at the Red Keep. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t teaching swordsmanship here — just that he wasn’t staying here. I will have to make enquiries outside of the Keep…_

* * *

Over the next few days, Sansa asked about a Braavosi visitor at some of the nicer boarding houses near the Keep whenever she was able to get away from her hostess duties. It was getting hard to get away from those duties — not only did the Braavosi themselves keep her busy, but a steady stream of people came to Sansa to ask her to provide an introduction to the Braavosi, for they wished to do business with the Iron Bank. After the first few times, Sansa had quickly learned that people were willing to promise all sorts of… _things_ if it meant an introduction. As a Lannister Lady, Sansa had few materials wants, but she was managing to build herself quite a network of informants and favours owed, not to mention gossip gathered.

Sometimes she wondered what her parents would think to see her trading access to visiting dignitaries for information and informants, but then she would remember how her father had no knowledge of these things, and that had killed him in the end. Sansa was determined not to meet the same fate, and that meant playing the game she’d found herself in to the best of her abilities. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be reunited with her family. That was all that mattered.

(sometimes, in the dark of the night, looking at the empty space in her bed where Tyrion normally lay, Sansa worried about what would happen to him when she left King’s Landing. She was sure he’d be fine. He was clever; he could talk himself out of any situation. Though maybe she should try and find a way to take him with her. He’d certainly be an asset to Winterfell, and she was the rightful heir to the North…)

Sansa had spoken again with Inigo, who had confirmed that his father looked very like him though about a head shorter, which made describing him easier. Inigo also said that his father would always stay at the nicest accommodation he could afford (and as a former First Sword of Braavos, he could afford very nice accommodation indeed), so Sansa felt sure in her decision to ask for the missing Braavosi at those boarding houses which catered to the richer travellers with business at the Red Keep.

Bronn trailed along behind her, whining most of the way. She found it easier just to ignore his complaints; for all his grumbling, Sansa found that giving Bronn a clear instruction and then acting like he was going to do as she said meant that in general, he did exactly what she told him to do.

There was a number of boarding houses on Aegon’s High Hill outside the Red Keep, but Sansa had no luck in finding him. Eventually, one of the larger boarding houses directed her to the Widow Dovesong, who occasionally took in boarders of generous means who valued privacy and quiet.

It was there, at a tidy house tucked in a small, unnoticed alley off The Hook that Sansa found where Syrio Forel had stayed during his time in King’s Landing.

The Widow Dovesong was a tiny, wizened woman whose eyes glinted with intelligence, even as her gnarled hands shook as she poured wine for Sansa. Bronn lurked uncomfortably at the back of the kitchen, trying to flirt with the kitchenmaid who was ignoring him as she kept a close eye on her mistress.

“Lady Lannister, what brings you to my humble house?”

“I am looking for a Braavosi man, Widow Dovesong. I was told he may have stayed here.”

“A Braavosi? I hear you have several of them up at the Keep. So why is Lady Lannister traipsing around Aegon’s High Hill trying to find another one?”

“It is a favour to one of the Braavosi currently in residence at the Red Keep, Widow Dovesong. The man I am looking for, Syrio Forel, is the father of one of the men currently visiting. The son has not heard from the father since Syrio was in King’s Landing, and asked for my help to find out what happened to him.”

“Syrio Forel?”

“Yes, that is the name of the man I am looking for. Apparently he stood as high as my shoulder, with curly black hair and black eyes. He was a bravo of some renown.”

“And hired by a Lord in the Keep to teach his child the Braavosi style of sword-fighting.”

“You knew him?”

“I did indeed, my lady. He stayed with me for several moons, but disappeared one day. He never came back from the Keep.”

“He was here?” Sansa seized Widow Dovesong’s hands in hers. “He was actually here?”

“He was here,” confirmed the old woman. “I still have his things — I did not know where to send them, so Myra over there boxed them up for me.”

“Thank you, Widow Dovesong. I will send someone to collect his things as soon as I get back to the Keep. I am sure his son will appreciate them. Did he ever say who he was teaching?”

“No, never. He was the soul of discretion, that one. There was one thing, however…”

“Yes?”

“His final bill has yet to be settled.” The Widow’s eyes glinted.

“It will be, once his son confirms that the belongings you have stored belong to his father.”

The Widow held Sansa’s gaze for an almost interminable length of time, then nodded. “That is a fair bargain.”

“If you believe the trade to be an unfair one, you may always take it up with the Master of Coin.”

“Who is your Lord Husband.”

“Indeed.”

“Ah, Lady Lannister,” chuckled the Widow Dovesong. “You are just as delightful as they said you were. I look forward to concluding this bargain with you.”

Later that day, Sansa headed to the practice yard where the Braavosi had proposed a bout with the young knights of the Reach to test their skills.

As Sansa entered the yard, the gathered Westerladies parted to allow her to see better. “You should see this, Sansa! It’s amazing!”

Inigo was fighting with Loras. Loras was wearing light armour; Inigo with no more protection than a quilted doublet. And yet —

Loras was _losing_. Loras would strike, but Inigo would already have spun away from where Loras’ blade landed. Inigo _danced_ around the young knight, his blade clipping Loras behind his knees, his back, his arms.

Sansa squinted her eyes to look closer. There was something wrong with Inigo’s blade. It wasn’t flashing in the sun like Loras’ was. And some of those strikes should have raised sparks off Loras’ armour.

“Is that...is that a wooden practice blade?” asked Sansa in shock.

“It is! And he’s holding Loras off! Isn’t he splendid?” chirped Lady Joanne. “I wonder if he’s as good with his _other_ sword?”

With a flurry of blows, Inigo moved from his teasing defence to a lightning quick attack, forcing Loras back towards the edge of the practice circle. Loras’ defensive moves became increasingly desperate, but Inigo dodged every single slice and parry from the taller man. Inigo ducked and weaved and _flowed_ into the gaps in Loras’ defence; pushing him back and back and back until suddenly —

Loras tripped on the rope marking out the practice arena and fell on his back. Inigo darted in and flicked Loras’ elbow with his wooden sword. Loras let go of his sword with a yell, and raised his hands in surrender.

Inigo grinned and offered a hand to pull Loras back to his feet. Inigo dusted Loras off and fetched Loras’ sword, handing it back with a flourishing bow.

Loras shook his head, and grasped one of Inigo’s hands and lifted it up high, declaring Inigo the champion of the day.

The assembled crowd laughed and clapped, cheering on both the victorious bravo and the grace with which Loras acknowledged his defeat.

The crowd poured into the practice ring to congratulate the men on their bout. Sansa remained on the outskirts of the crowd, and waited for Inigo to meet her eyes. When he did, she bowed her head, and he nodded in return.

He would seek her out within the next day or two to learn what she had found.

* * *

The next morning, Sansa and Aly went for a quiet walk along the walls of the Keep, watching the sun rise over the Bay. The Braavosi and the knights of the Reach had gone out drinking last night after Inigo’s victory in the practice ring, and Sansa didn’t expect them to stir for hours yet.

The peace of the morning was broken by footsteps approaching them. Sansa turned to see Lord Baelish and a young woman walking arm in arm along the walls.

“A lovely morning for it, don’t you think?” Lord Baelish hailed them as he approached.

“Lord Baelish,” murmured Sansa as she and Aly bobbed curtseys at him. “I hadn’t realised you were still in King’s Landing.”

He drew to a stop in front of them. “Urgent business called me back to the city unexpectedly.”

“The Braavosi delegation? They are waiting to speak with Lord Tyrion when he returns, but surely you could speak to them in his stead?”

“No, Lady Sansa, your husband is Master of Coin. I am merely a simple Lord of the Vale these days. Besides, I have heard excellent things about how you are seeing to the needs of the delegation.”

Sansa felt Aly bristle at her side and she stepped sideways onto her handmaiden’s foot to keep her quiet.

Lord Baelish faced Aly and asked “Might I speak with Lady Sansa alone for a moment?”

Sansa gave Aly a nod, and Aly withdrew to wait out of earshot with the young woman who had been walking with Lord Baelish.

Lord Baelish leant on the wall beside Sansa. “I saw your mother not long ago,” he said softly. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier. She’s very eager to see you.”

Sansa tried hard not to show how desperate she was of news of her family, but his next words stole her breath away.

“And I saw your sister.”

She turned to face him. “Arya’s alive?” she breathed, her eyes widening. Sansa couldn’t believe it. After all this time! “Where is she?”

“At Harrenhal.”

“At Harrenhal? But...that’s where the Lannister army is based!” So her sister was a prisoner of the Lannisters after all. She wondered why she hadn’t been told - surely Cersei and Joffrey would love to torture her with that knowledge. Or was her husband trying to hide the information somehow?

Her husband the Lannister. She’d trusted him. She’d spoken up for him, helped get him his new position which he obviously enjoyed, and this was how he repaid her. By keeping news about her sister from him.

Tyrion knew how much she missed Arya! He’d seen her cry over missing her sister, the very first night in their new room.

A room in which she’d invited him to share her bed, wanting to spare him the pain of sleeping on the chaise.

Fury filled her and it was all she could do to not to let it show on her face. She’d continue to be polite to their guests, but if Lord Tyrion thought he was going to continue to share her bed when he returned from his trip he had another thing coming!

“You said you’d take me home.” Sansa was proud at how steady her voice was. It reflected none of her rage.

“You said King’s Landing was your home,” replied Lord Baelish. “You’re the property of Lord Tyrion, the Uncle to the King. Stealing you would be treason, if you told just one person.” He cast a look back at where Aly was standing alongside the other woman.

Sansa noticed her hands had started to shake and crossed her arms, tucking her hands within her sleeves.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she vowed.

“How do I know?”

“Because I’m a terrible liar.” Sansa channeled all her rage into keeping her voice and face calm. “You said so yourself.” She turned to him and put a gentle hand on his arm. “Please Lord Baelish, tell me what to do. I’ll do whatever you want, I just want to go home.” _I don't trust him as far as I can throw him,_ she thought to herself. _His timing is always slightly too convenient. But if there really is a chance, even the slightest chance, that he is telling the truth, that Arya is alive and I get to go home...then I have to play along._

“Soon. You’ll need to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

Sansa nodded. She was going home!

“Keep an eye out for fools, my Lady. They often speak the truth.”

With that, he turned and walked away, reclaiming the woman he was walking with from Aly. Aly came and joined her mistress, and they set off back into the Red Keep, Sansa’s head spinning. _Arya is alive! But at Harrenhall with the Lannister army! Tyrion lied to me. I can’t believe he lied to me. I trusted him, and he lied to me. How_ dare _he!_

* * *

It was not until after dinner that evening that Inigo came to visit Sansa in her chambers.

“I think I found where your father was staying. Are these his things?”

Inigo looked through the cases of things that porters had delivered and while there were a few things that Inigo didn’t recognise, he identified the majority of things as belonging to his father.

He was particularly touched by a jeweled pin hidden in a box of writing materials. “This pin was my mother’s. It was given to her by her mother, and her mother before that. Thank you, Lady Lannister, for returning it to me.”

“It’s Lady Sansa, please. And it is my pleasure. However, while we know he was here, I still do not know who he was working for, or what happened to him. He was boarding with the Widow Dovesong, but she says she never learned who he was working with.”

Inigo stood up and stretched, his back making an audible clicking noise. “Lady Sansa, I have every faith you will find the answers. You found confirmation he was here — that is more than I was hoping for.”

“Is your back hurt?”

Inigo laughed. “No, Lady Sansa. No more than the hurts of a lifetime of sword work. Your young knights are talented with their blades — they got in more strikes than I thought they would have.”

“It was interesting watching you fight today. The Braavosi style is so different from the Westerosi style. I had no idea there were different ways of fighting like that.”

“You should see the fighters that come out of Yi Ti. They fight unarmed and can flatten even a water dancer.”

Sansa jolted. “A water dancer?”

Inigo smiled. “A romantic term for us bravos, Lady Sansa. Our style of fighting is often called water dancing, for the flowing forms we use. In all honesty, I was surprised that my father was hired as a teacher here in King’s Landing. The fighting style of the Westerosi knights is very different to the water dancing of Braavos, and I wondered what kind of lord would encourage his son to learn such techniques.”

“Not his son, his daughter.”

“Pardon?”

“I believe your father was hired by my father, Lord Stark, to each water dancing to my sister.”

Inigo slowly sat in a nearby chair. “What makes you think that? You never mentioned your sister learning to fight.”

Sansa joined him. “That’s because I wasn’t told she was learning to fight. I knew Father had hired a new dancing master for Arya. A dancing master that Arya loved, and was always talking about, and practising exercises for.”

“Exercises? What type of exercises?”

“Standing on one leg, chasing cats, breathing in a certain rhythm…”

“All exercises we teach young boys when they are studying to become a Braavosi swordsman,” confirmed Inigo.

“At the time I was distracted with my betrothal to Prince Joffrey, but even then I was puzzled as to my sister’s sudden enthusiasm for dance. Arya _hated_ dancing back at Winterfell. She balked every time our Mother or our septa tried to make her learn any dance steps. We finally taught her one simple Court dance and gave up — it was clear that Arya was never going to be comfortable with the more complex dances expected of a High Lady. Yet she loved her dancing lessons here in King’s Landing — to the point that when our Father tried to send us back to Winterfell, she protested because she didn’t want to leave her dancing master. She wanted to take him with us.”

“And you did not think of this immediately when I came to you?”

“No, Inigo. I am sorry. When you first said your father’s name I did think there was something familiar about it, but...I never met him, and a lot has happened since then. Besides, he was only ever spoken about as a dancing teacher, not a fighting teacher.”

Inigo sighed. “I understand. So, that’s two bits of information we know. Where he was staying, and what he was doing. But how did he die?”

Sansa stood, and poured two cups of wine. She handed one to Inigo and retook her seat. “I suspect he was killed when my father was arrested. They arrested my father, and killed everyone in our household. Our septa, our guards...everyone. My sister has been missing since that day.”

“Perhaps your sister was also killed?”

Sansa shook her head. “No. If she was killed they would have told me — they put the heads of everyone in the household on spikes on the Keep’s walls. And made me look at them. My sister’s head wasn’t there, but perhaps your father’s was. I didn’t recognise everyone, but...I was a stupid little girl back then. I didn’t know the names of everyone in our household, and while we brought many guards with us from Winterfell when we came I know we hired some people here in the city. I was distracted with how different King’s Landing was, and with trying to impress Prince Joffrey...I am sorry. I do not know what happened to your father.” Sansa drained her wine and put her glass back on the table. “But I can guess. He was most likely having a lesson with Arya at the time, since the only times Arya wasn’t underfoot in the Tower of the Hand was when she was having her dancing lessons. I imagine the guards came to capture Arya, like they came to capture me, and your father fought them off long enough for Arya to escape.”

“How many guards?”

“I am not sure. I’d assume a member of the Kingsguard and several others.”

Inigo drained his wine as well. “Thank you, Lady Sansa. This is more than I knew before coming here. I would still like confirmation of his death. If I can learn who killed my father, I can challenge them and avenge his honour.”

Sansa nodded. “I will continue to investigate his disappearance then.”

“Thank you, Lady Sansa, but if the murderer is within the Kingsguard it may be best for me to investigate myself. A fighter seeking out other fighters would not be remarked upon. A noble lady, however…”

“If you wish. Do let me know if there is anything further I can do for you in this matter,” Sansa said. “Though before you go, there was one thing I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

“Would you be interested in teaching me how to water dance while you are here? I can shoot, but I would like to learn a weapon that is better suited for close combat.”

Inigo looked at Sansa with his eyebrows raised, clearly assessing her.

* * *

After over a month away, Tyrion was glad when King’s Landing appeared on the horizon in front of their ship. The situation at Rook’s Rest had been sensitive, and although he had reached a solution that was accepted by all parties, it had been a stressful few weeks. _It will be nice to return to the usual scorpion pit that is the Red Keep. At least here I know I have the support of Bronn and Sansa, as well as Varys_ thought Tyrion as the ship docked at port.

Tyrion was surprised to see that Sansa was not at the docks to greet him, as she had been to farewell him, but it was the middle of the day. Perhaps she was somewhere that a runner could not find her to inform her that her husband’s ship had returned.

He watched as Podrick was escorted down the gangway and fell to the ground with a relieved sound. Travelling by boat did not agree with his squire, it seemed, as he was dreadfully ill the entire time. “Come on Podrick, we’re back on dry land now.”

“I can still feel the ocean moving, m’lord,” mumbled the boy as he lay on the ground.

“That may be the case, but if you lie here on the dock for too much longer someone will step on you,” said Tyrion as Bronn appeared through the crowd.

“Ah, Bronn. Good to see you. Anything of interest happen while I was away?”

“Oh, a few things. You should report to your Father right quick.”

Tyrion wrinkled his nose. “Oh, very well, if I must. Will you take care of Pod?”

The young squire groaned as Bronn picked him up with a cheery, “Well now, what’s the matter with you lad? Is the ocean the one woman you can’t successfully fuck?”

Tyrion trotted up the hill to the Keep, grumbling at the heat and the stench of King’s Landing. He always noticed the smell of King’s Landing more after he had been away for some time — but when he was surrounded by the stench day in and day out, his nose seemingly shut down and ignored all smells.

Tyrion made his way through the Keep and to his Father’s office, where he knocked and entered.

His father was sitting at his desk, frowning over some papers.

“So you’ve returned.”

“I have indeed. I see nothing much has changed here since I was gone.”

“It’s almost like your presence has no effect on the running of this kingdom.”

“Oh, but it does, Father. For example, I have brought with me three members of House Staunton.”

“Three? Were you so unsuccessful in resolving the issue of inheritance that you brought the claimants here to King’s Landing for me to make the judgement?”

“No, I made the judgement. The youngest of Lord Staunton’s sons, Tomas, is to be the heir. As soon as he is officially acknowledged by the Crown as Tomas Staunton as opposed to Tomas Waters.”

“How did you come to this decision?”

“One, the boy was widely acknowledged as Lord Staunton’s natural son, by both Lord Staunton himself and the Dowager Lady Staunton, his terrifying dragon of a grandmother. We must make sure Lady Staunton and Lady Tyrell never meet, for fear that they will overrule us all.”

Lord Tywin waved his hand. “What else? Surely the others had as much of a claim?”

“They did,” agreed Tyrion, “But they were also involved in smuggling.”

“Smuggling? What were they smuggling?”

Tyrion snorted. “A shorter list would be what they weren’t smuggling. They had their fingers in dozens of different pies — wine, weapons, gold, jewels, and people mostly. If their serfs were late in paying their tithes, then they — or their children — got sold to Volantis.”

“You have proof of this?”

“I have their ledgers. The idiots wrote it all down — or at least their Maester did.”

“Their Maester? The one who asked us to come to Rook’s Rest?”

“The very one. He was being blackmailed by the Stauntons, and wanted free of them.”

“What has become of him?”

“He has decided to find new meaning in his life by serving the Night’s Watch.”

“So you have left Tomas Waters to rule Rook’s Rest, sent their Maester to the Wall, and brought the three smugglers to King’s Landing?”

“Well, I brought their heads. As Master of Laws, I am the King’s justice. They were guilty, I had sufficient evidence, I beheaded them. Hopefully this will deter young Tomas from following in his brother’s and uncles’ footsteps. I suspect that even if he was tempted, the Dowager Lady Staunton would keep him in line.”

The door opened and Cersei swept in. “Ah, little brother. I heard you’d returned.”

“Sister. You look...older.”

Cersei ignored Tyrion’s jab and took a seat in front of Tywin’s desk. “Have you told him yet?”

“Told me what?” asked Tyrion.

Tywin sighed. “A representative from the Iron Bank has come to King’s Landing. He claims he is here to inspect the Iron Bank’s investment in the Baratheon dynasty. As Master of Coin, he is yours to deal with.”

“Lady Sansa has been… _entertaining_ the Braavosi in your absence,” said Cersei. “She seems to show a knack for keeping men amused, even wordly men from across the Narrow Sea. You have taught her well, brother.”

Tyrion stiffened at the insult to his wife and struggled to keep his temper under control. It would not do to lose his temper in front of his father, but he would find a way to pay Cersei back for her insults if it was the last thing he did.

“Enough!” snapped Lord Tywin. “Tyrion, you need to get Sansa with child. Immediately.”

“Immediately? I, I...I can’t order her to become pregnant on command! We’re working on it, these things take time...why the rush?”

“Because she is the key to the North.”

“The key to the North? I seem to recall she has an older brother. We’re at war with him, are we not?”

“The Karstarks have marched home. The Young Wolf has lost half his army; his days are numbered. Theon Greyjoy murdered both of the younger brothers.”

“The Greyjoy boy? I thought he had captured Winterfell, not murdered her brothers.”

“He had captured Winterfell, and when the people proved too difficult to manage, he burned the boys and sacked the castle before fleeing for the coast. Our contacts in the North have finally been able to get their messages through. The North is in complete disarray, and Sansa is the key to the North. You must get the girl with child to solidify our claim to the North.”

“And what if she does not want to be with child?”

“We have her and her maid under watch. There is no way she can get access to Moon Tea. If she is not pregnant within the year, we will annul the marriage based on her barrenness.”

“And if the problem is with me?”

“We will still annul the marriage based on her barrenness. We need to control the North. Your wife’s happiness is not my concern.”

“Wonderful. I shall get right on that,” said Tyrion.

Tyrion looked away from his father to see Cersei smirking at him. “Don’t worry brother, I’m sure between the two of you there is enough experience to know how to make a baby.”

“Cersei, enough. Tyrion will do as he’s bid, and so will you.”

Cersei looked at Tywin. “What do you mean?”

“You are to marry Ser Loras once Margaery is married to Joffrey.”

Cersei blinked. “I will not!”

“Ser Loras is the heir to Highgarden. Tyrion will secure us the North, you will secure us the Reach.”

“No, I won’t do it.”

“Yes you will! You’re still fertile, you need to marry again and breed.”

Tyrion didn’t dare move as Cersei drew herself up in a rage. “I am Queen Regent! Not some broodmare!”

“You’re my daughter!” roared Tywin. “You will do as I command, and you will marry Loras Tyrell.” Cersei shook her head but Tywin kept on talking. “This will put an end to those disgusting rumours about you, once and for all!”

Cersei collapsed back into her seat. “Father, don’t make me do it, not again, please.”

Tyrion watched Cersei out of the corner of his eye. She sounded — desperate. Terrified. _Honest_.

“Not another word!” Tywin slammed his hands on his desk and stood. “My children,” he snarled. “You have disgraced the Lannister name for far too long. You will do as you are told, both of you!”

Tywin stormed out of the room, the door crashing shut behind him. Tyrion looked over to see a single tear roll down Cersei’s face. He dug out a handkerchief that he thought was probably clean and handed it over.

Cersei snatched it from him and patted at her face. “I don’t need your pity.”

“Cersei…”

Cersei stood up so fast she knocked over her chair as she left the room in a flurry of skirts.

Tyrion rightened her chair, and decided to take the opportunity to look through the papers Tywin had on his desk. He found the letters from their spies in the North saying what the Greyjoy boy had done to the young Starks, as well as the information about the Karstarks. As well as a letter from Royce Bolton, which gave Tyrion pause. The Boltons were on the side of the North, weren’t they?

He shuffled the papers back into the approximate order he found them, and left Tywin’s office. He’d been away for over a month. He wanted a bath, and some decent wine. He wanted his bed.

He wanted his wife’s company. If their marriage was only to last another year, then he wanted to make the most of it while he still could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger’s information is a bit out of date — while Arya was at Harrenhal the last time he saw her, Arya has since left Harrenhall with Gendry and Hot Pie thanks to Jaqen H’ghar. But Littlefinger does not know this…
> 
> Also, I went back and watched the scene from season 1 when Ned is trying to send the girls back to Winterfell, and Arya does mention Syrio by name. Twice. But I’m headcanoning that Sansa would have forgotten his actual name — I mean, I can’t remember the name of most of my teachers at school, and they were _my_ teachers, not my younger sister’s...
> 
> Bronn's line to Pod is honestly one of my favourite things I've written. He's so fun to write.


	9. Eglantine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion can't work out what is wrong with Sansa, Littlefinger causes trouble, and Tywin Lannister combines forces with Walder Frey to remove the King in the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My grandma used to make me do the book thing, and although she never gave me the advice on using a rough book, I can tell you it’s 100% true. Want to do the book thing successfully? Use a hardcover book with a fabric cover (not a shiny dust cover) and move slowly. Channel your best murder walk and go for it.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from S03E10, ‘Mhysa’.

Something was wrong with his wife. Since he’d returned to King’s Landing, Tyrion had noticed that while Sansa was pleased to hand responsibility for the Braavosi party over to him, she was...avoiding him. She was taking her meals somewhere else if he was in their rooms, had barely smiled at him since his return, and was generally nowhere to be found. The tentative relationship Tyrion thought they had been building together through his slow seduction had disappeared.

Maybe she was still upset over the news of her brothers’ deaths. He’d broken the news of Theon Greyjoy’s final betrayal of her brothers to Sansa as soon as he’d seen her on his return.

“My lady, Sansa, I am so sorry. I just heard from my father...I am sorry no one told you sooner. Your brothers both seemed like sweet children; they didn’t deserve this fate.”

“How did they die?”

“I am unsure, Sansa. Would you like me to find out?”

“Please.” She’d looked at him then, her eyes welling with tears. He reached for her hand in an effort to comfort her, but she’d pulled away.

“Is there anything else, my lord?”

Tyrion just blinked at the cold tone she used. “Sansa?”

“Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

“...No?”

“Then if you will excuse me, my lord, I am going to the Godswood to mourn.”

That was the only conversation they’d had since Tyrion had returned from Rook’s Rest and he was confused. He’d thought they’d been getting along better. He’d thought Sansa would turn to him for comfort.

Tyrion guessed he’d thought wrong.

Doho Dimittis was full of effusive praise for Sansa, however. He praised her kindness, her gentleness, and the many amusements available in King’s Landing. From what Tyrion gathered, the Braavosi had arrived the very day he’d left, and there had barely been a day since then Sansa hadn’t organised some entertainment or adventure for the Braavosi. They’d been on hunts, sparred with knights of the Reach, gone on picnics, visited the markets in the city, raced horses around the Dragonpit, and visited the Great Sept and other interesting sights around the city. They’d also been to the best brothels available, though Doho hurried to assure Tyrion that it was the Knights of the Reach that had planned that excursion, not gentle Lady Sansa.

Doho even had some cuttings from the gardens tended by Margaery Tyrell herself to take back to his mother, which he was extremely honoured for. Really, based on the welcome Sansa had turned on for the Braavosi, Tyrion thought Doho’s report back to the Iron Bank would be overwhelmingly positive. Tyrion hoped his report on the Crown’s finances would be just as good. The tight alliance of the Crown with the Lannister and Tyrell families was certainly seen as beneficial by the Bank. Between them, Doho and Tyrion hammered out a repayment plan that they were both outwardly happy with — even if internally Tyrion despaired at how he was going to ever raise the funds.

While Tyrion and Doho discussed finances, Sansa continued to entertain the other members of the party — or at least, two of the members of the party, since Ferregi Antaryon had asked for permission to travel to the Reach to seek out Lady Meredyth’s father, and ask Ser Parmen for Lady Meredyth’s hand in marriage. Tyrion had helped arrange for a retinue of Lannister and Highgarden men to accompany the young bravo and Lady Meredyth on their journey, and given the length of time that it was going to take the party to travel to and from the Reach, Tyrion had formally extended an invitation to the rest of the Braavosi delegation to stay and attend the Royal Wedding. Doho Dimittis had been delighted with the invitation, and had accepted on the spot.

Given all the time she’d spent with the Braavosi delegation, Tyrion thought Sansa would be pleased that her new friends were staying around for longer. Yet she barely even smiled when he told her the news, merely bobbed a curtsey and left the room.

Tyrion stood in the middle of their room, wondering what had happened while he was away to make his wife avoid him like this. He supposed it was her grief, but he wasn’t sure. It seemed like something else had happened.

 

* * *

 

Sansa couldn’t talk to Tyrion. Every time she saw his face she wanted to yell. _Why didn’t you tell me Arya was alive? Why didn’t you tell me she was at Harrenhal? WHY HAVEN’T YOU BROUGHT HER TO ME?_

Sansa couldn’t work it out. Surely if the Lannisters had the other Stark girl in their grasp they’d’ve brought her to King’s Landing for safe keeping? Or maybe they’d sent her to Casterly Rock?

Or maybe they’d decided they didn’t need Arya after all. They had Sansa and, with both Bran and Rickon dead, Sansa’s claim to Winterfell as Robb’s heir could hardly be disputed under either Northern or Southern custom. Maybe they’d killed Arya after all. No one had seen her for years, after all. Who would notice one more body in this long, bloody war?

Sansa was surprised she didn’t feel sadder about the deaths of Bran and Rickon. She’d gone to the Godswood and cried for them, missing the fact she would never see them grow up, but she just felt...numb. She wondered if part of her had known Theon would kill them when he took Winterfell, and had mourned them then.

But then again...Bran and Rickon were sweet, but they weren’t her sister. Sansa found herself missing Arya more than ever these days. She’d always imagined her sister would be with her when she’d flowered, when she’d married. She’d thought they’d send letters to each other when they were married off to separate ends of the Kingdom.

 _I think that just shows what a silly little girl I was_ , thought Sansa. _There was no way Arya and I would have written to each other. Seven Hells, I wonder if Father would have ever managed to get Arya married off at all — she’d have fought like a direwolf if Father had tried to marry her to someone she didn’t like, or send her somewhere like King’s Landing. I guess I’ll never know now — the Lannisters killed Father, and I guess they killed Arya as well_.

Not wanting her fears confirmed, Sansa avoided her husband and threw her energy into her training with Inigo. Her background in court dances had helped Sansa with the footwork required to water dance, and Inigo was pleased at how long she could balance on one leg. Laughingly, one day Sansa had put a book on her head to show how well she could keep her posture while dancing around the room — it was something her Mother had taught her to do when she was a young girl trapped inside by a summer storm (“The secret, Sansa,” her mother had whispered, “is to pick a book with a relatively rough cover that will grip your hair. New leather is too slippery and will fall everytime, no matter how good your posture is.”).

Inigo was impressed by her posture and balance, and had started to teach her some basic tumbling skills and ways to escape from someone trying to physically attack her. Sansa was determined to master water dancing, and she was finding it much easier than archery. She’d managed to disarm Inigo one day, but on reflection thought that was probably more due to luck than to skill.

Sansa had discovered that as long as she kept moving, she could keep thoughts of her family at bay. She clung to the hope that one day she would get to see her Mother and Robb again — they were the only family she had left.

As the Royal Wedding drew closer, Sansa wondered if Littlefinger would soon take her to her family. She missed them.

But everytime she thought about her family, she wanted to cry. So Sansa kept training with Inigo, kept working with Varys, kept entertaining the remaining Braavosi, and kept herself busy with a whirlwind of social activities with the Westerladies and Lady Margaery’s attendants. Anything to keep her busy, keep her moving, and keep her thoughts at bay.

Sansa was even proud of how frequently she was able to slip away to train with Inigo in his chambers without anyone noticing.

Except someone had noticed. So focused on using her lessons with Varys and her training with Inigo that she didn’t notice the shadow following her through the corridors of the Red Keep.

 

* * *

 

“I must say, your office is far more boring than mine was,” said Littlefinger as Pod showed him into Tyrion’s office.

“Lord Baelish. What brings you back to King’s Landing? Shouldn’t you be romancing Lady Arryn?”

“Urgent business brought me back to the city,” oozed Littlefinger as he seated himself. Tyrion looked up from his book of figures with a raised eyebrow.

“Urgent business? Of what nature?”

“Of a...personal nature. I just thought I would stop in and see how my successor as Master of Coin was going.”

“How I was going cleaning up your shit, do you mean?”

“My shit?” Littlefinger’s face was the picture of innocence, but Tyrion wasn’t fooled. Littlefinger was far too crafty to actually be innocent of anything.

“Yes. Those millions the Crown owes the Iron Bank.”

Littlefinger waved a hand. “Oh, _that_. You’re a Lannister, don’t you shit gold?”

Tyrion snorted. “Even if that was true, there aren’t enough Lannisters in the world to shit that much.”

“Then you should get on with breeding some more. Then again, perhaps you won’t need to…”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone else is bedding your wife.”

“...Sansa?”

“Do you have another wife I don’t know about? Yes, the fair Lady Sansa.”

Tyrion spluttered. “What do you mean someone else is bedding her?”

“I have it on good authority, Lord Tyrion, that your wife is meeting a sellsword for daily assignations.”

“No. Not Sansa. She wouldn’t.”

“She wouldn’t? Because she loves you so much? Finds you so desirable?” Tyrion closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. “She’s found a lover better suited to her. Prepared to accept black-haired bastards, are you?”

Littlefinger stood to take his leave. “I always thought she was more like her mother, but I guess your lady wife takes after her father more than anyone ever thought. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some other errands to run. There are some twins I need to entertain.”

Littlefinger left the room, and a few moments later a glass crashed against the closed door and shattered.

 

* * *

 

The next day as they broke their fast Tyrion asked Sansa what her plans for the day were.

“Oh, this and that,” said Sansa, clearly wanting to avoid the conversation.

Tyrion nodded and quickly finished his meal. He left their rooms before Sansa was finished eating, bidding her a good day.

Tyrion carefully positioned himself around a shadowed corner of the corridor and waited for Sansa to appear. For once, he was glad of his small stature, as it made it easier for him to hide.

Sansa opened the door and Tyrion noticed she’d changed from the dress she was wearing when they had broken their fast. The dress she was wearing now looked simple — easy to slip on and off, not a complicated gown that Aly would need to help her with.

He ducked from shadow to shadow and followed his wife as she made her way through the Keep. Sansa wasn’t even trying to be subtle, humming a happy tune as she headed into the Courcel wing.

 _Of course it’s the Courcel wing_ , thought Tyrion bitterly. _That’s where she trapped me into this farce of a marriage_.

Sansa opened the door and Tyrion could hear a familiar male voice greet her. Tyrion was puzzled over where he’d heard that voice recently. He would swear he’d heard it since he came back to King’s Landing... _Oh. Of course. Littlefinger said she was with a sellsword. The only sellsword I know is...Bronn. Oh, Seven Hells. Was Bronn even sick when I left for Rook’s Rest, or was that all a ruse to be with Sansa without me in the way? Have they been playing me all along?_

Tyrion debated moving closer, but even from his hiding space he could hear Sansa’s voice ringing out in laughter and the man’s voice, presumably Bronn, answering her. He remained crouched there for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, Sansa slipped back out of the room, her dress and hair mussed, her face red and glowing with happiness, and clearly out of breath.

Unseen in the shadows, Tyrion’s heart broke. He’d thought he was building something good, something _real_ with Sansa.

Instead, he was just a cover for her affair with another.

 

* * *

 

It was four weeks before the Royal Wedding, and Tyrion hadn’t spoken to his wife since he’d followed her to her assignation with Bronn. Tyrion debated whether he should pay Bronn off and send him home, but in the end he couldn’t bear to. Bronn was his friend, and a talented swordsman, and if he made Sansa happy, well, Tyrion cared enough about his wife to want her to be happy.

Even if she wasn’t happy with _him_. It didn’t stop him from making Bronn stay by his side as much as he could though. Unless the sellsword was capable of being in two places at once, every hour Tyrion insisted on Bronn accompanying him was another hour the sellsword couldn’t spend with Sansa.

Tyrion told Bronn to wait for him outside the Small Council chamber, and walked into the room to find the King had graced them with his presence that day. The King who was practically skipping with glee.

“Killed a few puppies today, have you?” Tyrion couldn’t help but snark as he took his seat. He was angry and wanted to lash out at the world that had hurt him so.

Joffrey was fair bouncing in place beside Tywin. “Show him!” urged the King, pointing at Tyrion. “Go on, show him!”

Maester Pycelle slowly turned and made as if he was going to hand Tyrion a scroll, dropping it just at the last moment with an utterly fake “Oh, no, I dropped it. Apologies my Lord, I’m old and frail.”

Tyrion just glared at the Maester and grabbed the scroll from the floor. _He’s old and frail and I’m the Knight of Flowers,_ thought Tyrion.

Tyrion retook his seat and unfurled the scroll. “Roselyn caught a fine fat trout; her brothers gave her a pair of wolfskin pelts for her wedding. Signed, Walder Frey.”

Tyrion was tired. He was tired of the games, tired of his sadistic nephew, tired of King’s Landing. He wanted to crawl into a barrel of wine and never come out again. He sighed.

“Is this bad poetry, or...is it supposed to mean something?”

“Robb Stark is dead!” crowed Joffrey with glee. “And his bitch mother!”

Tyrion was frozen. Sansa’s relatives — technically also _his_ relatives when he thought about it — were dead. Murdered by Walder Frey, apparently. _Oh, **fuck,**_ Tyrion thought. _Sansa. How can I tell Sansa?_

“Write back to Lord Frey,” babbled Joffrey at Maester Pycelle. “Thank him for his service and command him to send Robb Stark’s head to me immediately. I’m going to serve it to Sansa at my wedding feast!”

“Your Grace,” said Varys, a note of caution in his voice, “Lady Sansa is your aunt. This would be...unwise.”

“A joke,” deflected Cersei. “Joffrey did not mean it. He is high-spirited, our King, and does so love his little jokes.”

“No, I meant it,” protested Joffrey. “I’m going to have her brother’s head served to Sansa at my wedding feast.”

“No,” said Tyrion. _I may not make her happy, but I’ll be damned if I let this little shit make her life worse._ “She is under my protection. She is no longer yours to torment.”

“Everyone is mine to torment,” hissed Joffrey. “I am the King. You’d do well to remember that, you little...monster.”

“Oh, a monster am I? Then you should speak to me more softly. For monsters are dangerous, and just now kings are dying like flies.” Baiting his nephew might not be the wisest of moves, but it felt good to strike out at someone. He might not be tall, or good with a sword, but his mind and his tongue were still sharp. The Lady Sansa was under his protection, and he’d keep the King away from Sansa if it was the last thing he did.

 _If it means giving her space to improve her relationship with Bronn, so be it. I don’t want my shit of a nephew to find out I’m being cuckolded. He’ll make all of our lives much, much worse._ Tyrion figured it was best to keep Joffrey’s attention focused on him, to spare Sansa as much pain as he could.

His nephew looked shocked at Tyrion’s words. “I...I could have your tongue out for that,” he said, pointing at Tyrion.

Cersei reached out and lowered Joffrey’s arm. “Let him make his threats, hmm? He’s a bitter little man. You’re the King, you needn’t concern yourself with him.”

“Lord Tyrion should apologise immediately,” warbled Pycelle. “It is unacceptable to speak so to the King. Unacceptable, disrespectful, and in very bad taste.”

Joffrey snatched his arm from his mother’s grip. “I am the King!” he yelled, slamming his fist on the table and making Lord Varys flinch. “I will punish you!”

“Any man who must say ‘I am the King’ is no true King,” drawled Tywin. “I’ll make sure you understand that when I’ve won your war for you.”

“My Father won the real war,” said Joffrey with a note of hysteria in his voice. “He killed Prince Rhaegar! He took the crown! While you hid under Casterly Rock!”

There was silence in the room as everyone watched Joffrey, as the young man shut his mouth and straightened up, trying to look defiant in the face of his grandfather’s unamused expression.

Tywin never even blinked. “The King is tired. See him to his chambers.”

Cersei stood at once. “Come along.”

“I’m not tired!” insisted Joffrey.

“We have so much to celebrate, and so much to do before the wedding. You don’t need to sit through these boring Small Council meetings. Come, my love, let us do something better with our day.”

“Grand Maester, perhaps some essence of Nightshade would help the King sleep,” suggested Tywin.

Joffrey pulled away from his mother. “I’m not tired!”

Tywin just raised an eyebrow and Cersei grabbed Joffrey’s arm, forcibly dragging him from the room. Maester Pycelle rose from his seat and followed them out of the room, only pausing to snatch Walder Frey’s scroll from the table in front of Tyrion. Varys also got up to leave the room, leaving Tyrion sitting alone at the table with his father.

Tyrion made to stand. He had to find Sansa and break the news to her before Joffrey could.

“Not you,” said Tywin.

Tyrion sat back down. “You just sent the most powerful man in Westeros to bed without his supper.”

“You’re a fool if you believe he’s the most powerful man in Westeros.”

“A treasonous statement. Joffrey is King.”

“Do you really think that a crown gives you power?” asked Tywin.

“No. I think armies give you power. Robb Stark had one and he never lost a battle. Yet you defeated him all the same.” Tywin just looked at him and Tyrion resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Oh, I know, Walder Frey will get all the credit. And all the blame too, depending on your allegiance. No, this was you. Walder Frey is many things, but a brave man? No.” Tyrion tapped his fingers on the table. “He never would have risked turning against the Starks on his own. Not without certain assurances.”

“Which he got from me. Do you disapprove?”

“I’m all for cheating and this is war. But to slaughter them at a wedding —”

“Explain to me,” interrupted Tywin, “why it is more noble to kill ten thousand men in battle than a dozen at dinner?”

Tyrion scoffed. “So that’s why you did it? To save lives?”

“To end the war,” said Tywin. “To protect the family.”

“The Starks were our family too. As much as the Baratheons were.”

Tywin snorted. “They were hardly our family. You want to write a song for the dead Starks, go ahead. Write one. I’m in this world for a few more years yet, and I shall use this time to defend the Lannisters. To defend my blood.”

Tyrion just shook his head. “The Northerners will never forget what you have done.”

“Good!” snapped Tywin. “Nor should they. Let them remember what happens when the North rides against the South. All the Stark men are dead. Winterfell is in ruins. Roose Bolton will serve as Warden of the North until your son by Sansa comes of age.” Tywin stood. “I believe you still have some work to do on that score.” He turned and walked to his desk.

“Do you think she’ll open her legs for me now, after I tell her how we murdered her mother and brother?” Tyrion followed his father back to the desk.

“One way or another, you will get that girl pregnant.”

“I will not rape her!”

“You will get her pregnant, or someone else in this family will. I’m sure Joffrey would be most eager to get his hands on the girl. Or perhaps I should do it myself, if you are unable to bring yourself to perform your duty.”

Tyrion was speechless with horror. Sansa might not like him, but surely he was a better option than either his nephew or his father.

“Shall I explain to you in one easy lesson how the world works?” asked Tywin as if he hadn’t just threatened to rape his son’s wife.

“Use small words, I’m not as bright as you,” spat Tyrion in an attempt to bluster through his shock.

“The house that puts family first will always defeat the house that puts the whims and wishes of it’s sons and daughters first. A good man does everything in his power to better his family’s position, regardless of his own selfish desires.”

Tyrion forced his face into a smile. It was better than crying.

“Does that amuse you?” asked Tywin.

“No, it’s a very good lesson,” said Tyrion. “Only, it’s easy for you to preach utter devotion to family when you are the one making all the decisions.”

“Easy for me, is it?”

“When have you ever done something that wasn’t in your interest, but solely for the benefit of the family?”

“The day you were born,” said Tywin in a flat, emotionless voice. Tyrion froze. “I wanted to carry you into the sea and let the waves wash you away. Instead I let you live. And I brought you up as my son. Because you’re a Lannister. And that means something to me.”

Tywin left the room before Tyrion could say anything else. In a daze and without telling Bronn what they were doing, Tyrion searched the Red Keep for Sansa. She wasn’t in the Godswood, wasn’t in the garden outside his office, wasn’t with Lady Margaery or the Westerladies he found in Lady Tyrell’s gardens.

Eventually, he found her in their room, sitting on a windowsill and looking out at the harbour. He approached her slowly, and Sansa turned to face him.

Tears ran down her face and darkened her dress. Someone had already told her. She already knew.

Sansa turned back to the window. Without speaking, Tyrion bowed his head and left the room. He found a pageboy in the hallway and sent the boy to find Aly, waiting outside for the handmaiden to arrive. Sansa would need comforting, and he’d be damned if he let Bronn be the one to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! (points to tags)


	10. Hawthorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion sighed and slumped back into his seat. He wanted to look after Sansa — wanted to hold her, to reassure her that everything would be all right. He’d taken to sleeping in his office to give Sansa space, and he missed her. He just wished everything would go back to how it had been, when he felt like he’d really been building something with Sansa. Something lasting. Something _real_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S04E01 ‘Two Swords’.

“Here, Lady Sansa, have some pigeon pie.”

The gathered ladies sent each other concerned looks as Sansa didn’t even acknowledge Lady Genna offering her the tasty dish.

“What about one of these jam tarts? They are delicious,” said Lady Cersei softly.

“No, thank you,” whispered Sansa.

“Lemon cakes? You love lemon cakes,” said Tyrion as he offered them to her. He’d asked Lady Hamell, Lady Lennet and Lady Alla Tyrell to come to lunch with him and Sansa, in the hope that her friends would cheer her up. He’d broken his fast this morning with his brother and felt pulled between Jamie and Sansa — both of them were important to him, both of them broken in different ways. Tyrion’s heart ached for them both. He just wanted them to be happy. Preferably, in the case of Sansa, happy with him.

Sansa just looked at him, then turned her head away.

“My lady, you do need to eat,” said Tyrion, reaching his hand out to hers.

Sansa snatched her hand back quickly. “I don’t want to eat.”

“Ladies, if you could perhaps leave Lady Sansa and I alone for a time?”

The ladies removed themselves from the table with brief curtseys and strolled through the garden, sending concerned looks back towards the sad figure of Sansa sitting at the table, her husband beside her.

“I can’t let you starve. I swore to protect you.”

Sansa scoffed.

“I am your husband. Please let me help you.”

“How can you help me?”

“I don’t know, but I can try,” said Tyrion, looking hopefully at Sansa.

“Your family killed mine. I lie awake all night, staring at the canopy, thinking about how they died. How they were killed. By your family.”

Tyrion dropped his head into his hands. “My lady, Sansa, I swear to you I did not know. I had no idea of the plan until after it had been done.”

“Do you know what they did to my brother?” asked Sansa as if Tyrion hadn’t spoken. “They sewed his direwolf’s head onto his body. Do you know what they did to my mother? They say cut her throat to the bone and threw her body in the river.”

Tyrion sighed. “I did not know your brother, but he seemed like a good man. I did know your mother, however, and I admired her greatly. She wanted to have me executed, but I admired her. She was a strong woman. Fierce. I see a lot of her in you.” Tyrion reached out to take Sansa’s hand again. “What happened to your family was a terrible crime, Sansa. I do not deny it.”

Sansa tightened her grip on Tyrion’s hand to a painful extent. “And as Master of Laws, are you going to be see this crime put right? Are you going to seek justice for my family?”

Tyrion looked down at his hand, held captive by his wife. It was the first time she’d touched him in weeks, and even now, in the middle of everything that was happening, part of him revelled in the fact she was touching him.

“If it is your wish, then as Master of Laws, I can convene a trial. Your family’s killers will be brought to justice.”

Sansa shoved his hand back at him. “All you’ll find is a few drunken men at arms. Lord Frey won’t be punished for this. Nor will your father.”

“My father?”

Sansa laughed bitterly. “Lord Frey would never have done such a thing on his own. The Late Lord Frey we called him in the North. Never one to commit to a battle until it’s already been won by others. You forget I know my histories. Particularly of the Riverlands and the North.”

Tyrion nodded in acknowledgement. “Forgive me, my lady, of course you would.”

“Late Lord Frey wouldn’t have done something like this without someone else giving him the idea. But who? Certainly not anyone from the North; the entire Northern campaign is gone now. It could have been Stannis Baratheon, but this doesn’t seem like him. He seems too honourable to get Lord Frey to do his dirty work for him. But your father...your father. This is exactly the sort of thing your father would do. Do you think they’ll write a song about it? Call it the Starks of Winterfell? Or the Wedding Betrayal? Bread and Salt and Death? Will it be handed down, from Lannister to Lannister, the great victory of the lions over the wolves, won not nobly on the battlefield but instead through trickery, deceit, and the violation of guest rights?” Sansa slammed her hands on the table. “And what of my sister? Are you ever going to tell me what happened to her?”

Tyrion sat in shock as Sansa seemed to grow twice as large in her rage. By the end, she was standing, towering over him, with fire and fury spitting from her eyes. Tyrion gulped, and opened his mouth, but had no idea what to say.

Suddenly, Sansa sagged, her hands resting on the table to support her weight. “It’s no use. A show trial will not bring my family back. Nor will it bring their killers to justice. And I have no idea why you won’t tell me about my sister, except maybe you and your monstrous family are waiting until I am happy again and then you will drag her in front of me and kill her while I watch. I wouldn’t put it past you, any of you. All I can do is carry on, and hope that payment for these evil deeds is sought sooner rather than later.” She brushed a tear from her face and took a deep breath. “If you’ll pardon me, my lord, I would like to visit the Godswood.”

 _Her sister? What in the Seven Hells is she talking about? No one has seen her sister for years — even my father has given up on trying to find her. The girl is dead, she must be._ But Tyrion voiced none of those thoughts. He didn’t think it wise, given how upset Sansa was. _Perhaps I should ask Varys if he has learned anything. Maybe she has been sighted somewhere? If I could help keep her safe surely that would make Sansa happy again. Maybe even make her happy with_ me _again._

Tyrion stood as she made to leave. “Of course, of course. Prayer can be helpful, I hear, in trying times such as these.”

Sansa stopped and faced him. “I don’t pray anymore. I prayed after my brothers were killed but the rest of my family died anyway. The Gods clearly don’t listen to silly little girls. It’s the only place I can go where no one will try and talk to me.”

Sansa turned and walked away and Tyrion motioned for Aly to follow her. Even if Sansa didn’t want to talk to her handmaiden, Tyrion didn’t want her to be left alone. He remembered how lost and in pain Sansa had been when her father had been killed, he didn’t want to see her spiral like that again.

Tyrion sighed and slumped back into his seat. He wanted to look after Sansa — wanted to hold her, to reassure her that everything would be all right. He’d taken to sleeping in his office to give Sansa space, and he missed her. He just wished everything would go back to how it had been, when he felt like he’d really been building something with Sansa. Something lasting. Something _real_.

 

* * *

 

As far as Tyrion could work out, Sansa hadn’t eaten anything for several days. He looked at Bronn, who was lounging underneath a tree, seemingly without a care in the world. Perhaps his wife’s lover could convince her to eat when he couldn’t…

But Tyrion didn’t want to ask this of Bronn. He knew they were lovers, but...he didn’t want to _know_. As long as neither of them confirmed their affair to him, some part of Tyrion could still believe his wife was faithful to him, as he was to her.

“How many Dornishmen does it take to fuck a goat?” asked Bronn, watching as Tyrion moved so a peasant woman and her goat could pass.

“Don’t,” snapped Tyrion. Today was stressful enough without his wife’s lover being insulting to the Dornishmen. _But perhaps I should let him get it out of his system now, before the Dornishmen arrive and take offence…_

Bronn shrugged and took another pull from his flask. “Seems to me that a smart place to meet travellers is in a tavern. That way, if one party’s late, the other party can partake in some refreshing ale inside.”

Tyrion sighed with annoyance. “It’s a Prince of Dorne we’re waiting for, not one of your sellsword friends.”

“If he’s so damned important, how come they sent you to meet him? Why not your brother? A knight is a fair bit more impressive than a dwarf.”

Tyrion glared at his — former? — friend. “There’s...bad blood between the Martells of Dorne and the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. Has been for years.”

Bronn might have been cuckolding his friend but he wasn’t slow. “So in case the Martells of Dorne are looking to spill the blood of a Lannister of Casterly Rock, it may as well be yours.”

“No need to be so cynical, Bronn. I happen to be an accomplished diplomat,” said Tyrion.

“Oh. So it was you who impressed those Braavosi, was it? I thought it was your wife.”

Tyrion had just opened his mouth to snarl at Bronn for being so bold as to mention Sansa in his presence when a shout came from further down the road. The Dornishmen were approaching.

Tyrion clapped his hands and the waiting men formed up behind him. “Can you read the sigils?” he asked his taller companions.

“Yellow balls? I don’t know. Can’t bloody see that far.”

“Twelve lemons on a purple field,” interrupted Pod. “House Dalt of Lemonwood. A vulture grasping a baby in it’s talons, that’s House Blackmont. A crowned skull, the Manwoody’s of King’s Grave…”

“The lad knows his Dornish houses,” commented Tyrion, impressed by his squire’s knowledge.

“Once my Lady knew the Dornish were coming she ensured I would know the sigils of the main Dornish houses,” explained Pod. “Lady Sansa says it is important for us to give every courtesy to visiting nobles, or at the very least, know who they are.”

Tyrion’s face twisted into a pained smile. _Of course she would do that,_ thought Tyrion, his heart filling with pride at how clever and thoughtful his wife was. _Even in the middle of her pain, she offers kindness and courtesy to all._ “Do you see the sigil for House Martell?” he asked.

“No, my lord,” responded Pod.

“Are you sure? It’s a red sun, pierced by a spear.”

“I know the sigil, my lord,” said Pod evenly. “I don’t see it. It’s not there.”

Tyrion took a deep breath as he stepped forward to meet the riders, his mind racing. Had Prince Doran decided not to come to King’s Landing after all? _One could hardly blame him for snubbing the Lannisters in such a way, but to snub the King? Is this a signal Dorne is preparing for war? Shit, Myrcella. Surely they won’t go to war while the King’s own sister is betrothed to Prince Trystane...unless they mean to hold her captive to ensure our capitulation. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit._

“Well met, my Lords,” he called out in a firm voice that didn’t betray any of his internal thoughts. “His Grace, King Joffrey, welcomes you in his name. My Lord Father, the Hand of the King, sends his greetings as well.” Tyrion felt his hand twitching and tried to quell this nervous tick. “I am Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock, Master of Laws and Master of Coin.”

Tyrion searched the banners he could see, but Pod had been right. The Martell banner was not present. “Forgive me, I don’t see Prince Doran in your company.”

“The Prince’s health forces him to remain at Sunspear,” said the man carrying the banner for House Blackmont. “He sends his brother, Prince Oberyn, to attend the royal wedding instead.”

 _Oh, fuck,_ thought Tyrion. _Dorne wants a war. Or at least vengeance. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. If we make it through the wedding without any bloodshed it will be a miracle._

“I am sure the King will be delighted to enjoy the company of a warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn at his wedding feast,” said Tyrion.

“Will he?” asked the man from House Blackmont. “How...nice.”

“And where is Prince Oberyn? I do not see his banner amongst your own.”

“He arrived before dawn. Not a man for welcome parties, our Prince.”

“Very well. My Lords of Dorne, these fine men from the City Watch will escort you to your quarters in the Red Ke-” Tyrion was cut off as the Dornishmen rode their horses forward, causing Tyrion to scramble out of the way so as not to be rode down.

“Some accomplished diplomacy that was,” commented Bronn as they moved away from the column of Dornishmen towards their horses. “Now what do you suggest we do, Master Diplomat?”

Tyrion decided to ignore the sellsword’s jibe and be the bigger man. “We must find Prince Oberyn before he kills somebody. Or several somebodies.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy. How do you plan on finding a single Dornishman in a city this big?”

“Let’s say you’re famous for fucking half of Westeros, and you’ve just arrived in the Capital after two weeks of bad road. Where would you go?”

“As I remember rightly, you went straight to the Red Keep to your nephew’s birthday.”

Tyrion glared at Bronn. “Funny.”

 

* * *

 

Tyrion decided to try Littlefinger’s most expensive brothel first. It was known as one of the better brothels in the city, and Tyrion thought it might give him some idea of whether or not the Dornishman was in Littlefinger’s pocket.

The guards outside confirmed that a rich Dornishman was inside, and Tyrion thought it a fairly safe assumption that this was Prince Oberyn.

He could hear yells of pain, and since this was not normally a sound one heard in Littlefinger’s finest brothel (Littlefinger had other brothels for that sort of thing), hastened his footsteps.

“Prince Oberyn, forgive the intrusion,” said Tyrion as he entered the room he’d heard the cries from. “We heard there might be...trouble.”

Inside the room was a curious tableau. There was a Lannister guardsman standing with his sword partially drawn. A finely dressed Dornishman was pinning a second guardsman to the table with a dagger. A scantily dressed lady who looked older than Littlefinger’s usual whores was watching the proceedings, and another man was standing to one side.

Oberyn pulled his dagger from the man’s hand, who let out a howl of agony. The two guardsmen left the room in a hurry, presumably to find a healer. The woman crossed to Oberyn who swept her up in his arms.

“Apologies, my love. They are not worthy of looking upon your beauty.” Oberyn claimed the woman’s mouth in a passionate kiss, his hands stroking down her sides and threatening to hitch up her dress.

 _Ah, so this would be his paramour, Ellaria Sand,_ thought Tyrion. _By the Seven, she is a beauty. Oberyn sure knows how to pick them._

“I’m here to welcome you to King’s Landing,” said Tyrion in an effort to interrupt the embracing couple.

“My love, he is here to welcome us to the Capital,” murmured the woman as she broke off from Oberyn’s kisses. “Who is he?”

“He is the King’s own Uncle Imp, Tyrion, son of Tywin Lannister,” explained Oberyn as he gestured to Tyrion.

Tyrion noticed Ellaria’s face shift from curiosity to distaste as she looked at him and swallowed. “If there is anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant, please —”

Oberyn cut him off. “And what are you, his hired killer?”

Bronn puffed up. “It started that way, aye, but now I’m a knight.”

Oberyn scoffed. “How did that come to pass?”

“Killed the right people I suppose,” shrugged Bronn.

Oberyn laughed in delight. “We’ll need a few more girls,” he said, gesturing to the brothel manager. Tyrion shook his head.

“You don’t partake?” asked Oberyn.

“Oh, I partook. But now I’m married. I wouldn’t want to displease my wife by being unfaithful to her.”

“You northern people, so concerned with being faithful. Life is short! Live a little.”

“My life will be even shorter if my wife considers me unfaithful. She is of the North.” _She might not have any qualms about being unfaithful to me, but I am a Lannister. A vow is just another form of debt._

“Everywhere is north of Dorne,” dismissed Ellaria.

“No, the north-North. My wife is Lady Sansa, formerly of House Stark of Winterfell.”

Oberyn nodded. “Ah, a she-wolf. Yes, I can see how you would be cautious of one such as her. I have heard many stories of the she-wolves of Winterfell, my dear,” he said to Ellaria. “They have ice in their veins, but are splendid in their anger and ferocious in their rage. Wise men do not bait she-wolves. Those who bait she-wolves often find it is the last thing they do.” He turned back to Tyrion. “I would like to meet your she-wolf. If she has managed to tame the Imp, someone whose reputation as a lover very nearly matches my own, she must be a truly stunning woman.”

Tyrion smiled while watching Bronn out of the corner of his eye. If Bronn had reacted to Oberyn’s praise of Sansa, Tyrion hadn’t spotted it. _So he’s a better liar than I thought…_

“Prince Oberyn, if I may. A word? In private?”

He led the Dornishman outside to the street. Tyrion hoped the hustle and bustle of the streets would stop anyone from overhearing their conversation. “The King is very grateful that you have travelled all this way for his wedding.”

“Oh, let us speak the truth, one man to another,” said Oberyn. “Joffrey is insulted. I am only the second son, after all.”

“Well, speaking as a fellow second son, I’ve grown rather used to being the family insult.”

“And yet you married a Stark.”

“And yet I married a Stark,” agreed Tyrion. “Why have you come to King’s Landing?”

“I was invited to the Royal Wedding.”

Tyrion sighed. “I thought we were speaking the truth.”

Oberyn looked at him for several long moments, then spoke. “The last time I was in the capital, it was many, many years ago. For another wedding. My sister Elia and Rhaegar Targaryen, the last dragon. My sister loved him. She bore his children, swaddled them, rocked them, fed them from her own breast. She wouldn’t let the wet nurse touch them. And beautiful, noble Rhaegar Targaryen left her for another woman.”

“A Stark.”

“Yes. Your wife’s aunt, I believe?”

Tyrion nodded.

“Ah, but she was taken from her family, from her betrothed, by Rhaegar. It was Rhaegar Targaryen who caused it all, and it is he who I blame, not my sister, not the Stark girl. If you wanted to make sure I have enmity against your wolf-wife, then no. She is safe from me. House Martell has no quarrel with House Stark.”

“But with House Lannister?”

“With House Lannister we have a quarrel, yes. And House Baratheon.”

“If you have such a quarrel, why did you accept Myrcella?”

Oberyn smiled. “Because in Dorne, we do not hurt little girls. Unlike they do here.”

Tyrion wished he could protest, but he knew too well how difficult life could be for women in King’s Landing. His own wife was more than ample proof of that.

“When Rhaegar left Elia, he started a war. A war that ended right here, when your father’s army took this city.” Tyrion tried to protest but Oberyn spoke over him. “They butchered those children. My nephew and niece. Carved them up, wrapped them in Lannister cloaks...and my sister. You know what they did to her?”

Oberyn reached out and grabbed Tyrion’s chin, forcing the shorter man to look him in the eyes. “I’m asking you a question. You will answer it.”

“I’ve heard rumours,” said Tyrion, brushing Oberyn’s hand aside.

“So have I. The one I keep hearing is that Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, raped Elia and split her in half with his great sword.”

“I wasn’t there,” reminded Tyrion. He had been far away, still at Casterly Rock.

“I came here to find the truth. If the Mountain killed my sister, your father gave the order.” Oberyn smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “When you tell your father I am here, little Master of many things, tell him the Lannisters are not the only ones who pay their debts.”

 

* * *

 

Sansa’s stomach rumbled. She’d subsisted on nothing more than water for several days, ever since Varys had told her about her mother and brother’s deaths. And the death of her sister-in-law. She hadn’t even known she had a sister-in-law. She wondered what the woman had been like, but all Varys had known was she was Robb’s wife, and pregnant.

With a sigh, Sansa levered herself up. As annoying as Tyrion and Aly were, they were right. She did need to eat.

Sansa was going to get revenge on those who had wronged her and had wronged her family. And she couldn’t do that if she died of hunger here in the Godswood.

She began to slowly make her way through the Godswood, occasionally leaning on trees for support when she needed to. Sansa knew Aly would be waiting for her on the other side of the wall, ready to escort her back to her room in the Red Keep.

Their room, technically. Sansa was still married.

She wondered if she should forgive Tyrion. Her anger had cooled, dulled by the pain of what happened to her family. She knew he had had nothing to do with it. The look on his eyes when he saw her, the gentle way he spoke with her...Sansa was ready to lay the burden of her family’s deaths on Tywin Lannister and none other.

 _Besides,_ though Sansa. _I rather miss his company. Odd, though I suppose two years of marriage is more than enough to become familiar with someone. Almost fond of them, really._

Lost in her own thoughts, Sansa didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind her, and whirled in fright when a hand touched her shoulder.

The messy, wine-stained man behind her gestured for silence, muttering as he drunkenly shifted in place.

“You’re drunk,” Sansa said, recognising Ser Dontos.

Ser Dontos nodded. “Yes. I have good reason to be.”

 _Well, he may be a drunk, but at least he isn’t a lying drunk,_ Sansa thought.

“Once I was a knight. Now I am merely a fool. But at least I am a living fool, thanks to you.”

Suddenly, Littlefinger’s parting words drifted through her head. _“Keep an eye out for fools, my Lady. They often speak the truth.”_

“It was nothing, ser, really. Anyone would have done the same.”

“Maybe, but it was you who did it. You gave me my life. And for that, I can never repay you. But if it would please you…” he reached into his purse and pulled out a necklace. “Perhaps this could go some way to correcting the balance between us? It was my mother’s, and her mother’s before her.”

Sansa reached out and carefully took the proffered necklace, absently noting that it would work perfectly with the dress she had made for Joffrey and Margaery’s wedding. “Ser Dontos, I can’t…”

“House Hollard was strong once. A House on the rise. That’s all that’s left of those days, thanks to a few too many sad, fat drunks in the family.”

“I can’t take this. It’s very, very kind of you, but it’s yours. It’s all you have of them. I can’t take it from you.”

“You aren’t taking it from me, I am giving it to you.” Ser Dontos reached out and closed Sansa’s hand around the necklace. “Take it. Wear it. Let my name have one more moment in the sun before it disappears from the world.”

Sansa stared deep into Ser Dontos’ eyes and found what she was seeking. “Thank you, Ser Dontos. I will wear it with pride, so your House may have one more moment in the sun.”

After he left, Sansa found a seat in the sun. She would join Aly in a moment — she _was_ hungry — but she wanted to have another look at this necklace. Something about Ser Dontos’ story didn’t ring true.

Several things, really. First, the man was a drunk. Why on earth did he still have a family heirloom with him? It would have been an easy thing to sell. From the looks of his clothing he was barely able to clothe himself, yet instead of selling this necklace for clothing or more wine, he preserved it? If it was such a treasured keepsake that even a drunk wouldn’t trade it for more alcohol, why give it to her? Why give it to a random girl, the aunt of the man who had embarrassed him and turned him from a knight to a fool?

Sansa looked closely at the necklace. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t an heirloom. It was far too modern for that. The catch was smooth, and operated easily. The stones were clean, and highly polished. This was not a new piece of jewellery. As a Lannister wife, Sansa had built up quite a lovely collection of pieces, both heirloom and new, and this necklace was not old.

And speaking of the stones...Sansa held the stones up to the light. There was something odd about them. She tapped one of them with her fingernail. It wasn’t an amethyst. Sansa had amethysts — a pretty bracelet made of them that Tyrion had given her for a present one day when she was still speaking to him. And Lady Genna was always wearing amethysts — they were her favourite stone. The stones in this necklace looked like amethysts when you first saw them, but when you looked at them closely in the light, they were all wrong. It appeared there was something in them.

Sansa carefully ran the very tips of her fingers over the stones. _There,_ she thought. _There’s a seam. There must be something in these stones. Most probably poison. But why? Who would want to poison me through a necklace?_ Sansa remembered that Ser Dontos had only touched the necklace by the chain, not the jewels, and hurriedly shifted how she was holding it. _Varys. I have to take this to Varys. Too many things are wrong with this gift and I cannot figure it out on my own._


	11. Blackberry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tries to work out who is trying to kill or (or are they wanting her to kill someone else?), Tyrion sulks because no one is eating, and Joffrey destroys a very rare book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S04E02 ‘The Lion and the Rose’.
> 
> Very short chapter this time, but I promise you next week’s chapter is nice and long.
> 
> Points to those who spot the Fall Out Boy reference.

Sansa found herself calling on every ounce of her training as a lady to sit still while Varys examined the necklace and considered what she’d told him.

“You suspect the stones contain poison?”

“Yes, my Lord. I can’t think of anything else it would be.”

Varys hummed, raising the stones so they were backlit by the sun streaming through the window. “What reason would this Ser Dontos have to poison you?”

“I cannot think of any. My only interactions with him have been asking Joffrey to spare his life during the Name Day tourney, and talking with him in the garden earlier today. House Hollard has traditionally sworn fealty to House Baratheon. I know of no bad blood between House Hollard and the Houses of Tully or Stark. I checked my lineage books over lunch. There is truly nothing linking Hollard to any of the Houses I have close ties to. Ser Dontos is the last of his line, the rest of the House executed on the command of Aerys after the Defiance of Duskendale. Lord Tywin led King’s host at that time, but I doubt Ser Dontos is trying to avenge his House by poisoning the wife of Lord Tywin’s youngest son. It just doesn’t make any sense for him to target me like this.”

“So you are suspicious of this gift.”

Sansa nodded. “So I am suspicious. It seems...too neat. The last scion of House Hollard asking the King’s aunt by marriage to take possession of a family heirloom which is too newly minted to give truth to the tale? Ser Dontos was very clearly treating me as a silly little girl who just takes baubles at face value.”

“When you are not?”

Sansa laughed. “My Lord, you should know better than others that I am brighter than I let on. You asked me to become your apprentice, after all.”

“I did indeed. So, if your suspicions are correct, why? Why has Ser Dontos given you a poisoned necklace?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out, and I was hoping for your input. Some weeks back, Littlefinger approached me and said he had a way to get me out of King’s Landing. He told me to keep an eye out for fools. I suspect Ser Dontos is an agent of Littlefinger’s.”

“So Littlefinger’s agent has given you something that should help you leave King’s Landing. But why poison?”

“I had wondered if he meant me to poison various people who could potentially stop me — my husband, my maid, the guards at the gates. But that seems like a lot of bloodshed for not much gain. And how would I poison the guards? They tend to be suspicious types. Giving me a fighter who could fight them would make more sense. And how am I actually to leave?”

“My little birds tell me that Littlefinger’s ship has been spotted heading for King’s Landing.”

“I thought he was excused from attending the Royal Wedding so he can secure the Vale?”

“He has been.”

“So why is he coming — oh. He’s coming for me.”

Varys nodded.

“So Littlefinger has given me poison, and is sending his ship to collect me,” said Sansa. “But how am I meant to know whom to poison? And when?”

Varys looked at the necklace on his desk, and prodded one of the stones carefully. “Amethysts.”

Sansa scoffed. “Poor replicas. Did they honestly think that as a Lannister wife, I wouldn’t recognise fake jewels? Why, these are hardly more real than several of the ones ‘gifted’ to me on the occasion of my wedding. Furthermore, House Stark may not have had the riches of some of the Southern Houses, but my mother ensured I wasn’t completely unskilled in the arts of fine dress — including knowing when someone is trying to pass fake jewels to me.”

“I think they were more trying to take advantage of your honest, trusting reputation, Lady Sansa. Tell me, when you first saw this necklace, what did you think you’d wear it with?”

“My first thought is that it would go well with the dress I have been making for the Royal Wedding. It’s a similar colour, and the neckline would show off the necklace well.”

“Who knows what dress you are planning to make?”

Sansa waved her hand. “It’s hardly a secret. The Westerladies, the Reachwomen, and I have been working together on our dresses for months now. And I’ve commented more than once that I’m not sure what jewellery to wear with it. Any of the ladies at court would be likely to know; it’s hardly suspicious.”

“Then maybe you aren’t meant to poison anyone at all. Maybe Littlefinger hoped you would wear the necklace to the wedding. Someone else could “fix” it for you, and slip the poison off it. Then poison whomever the target is, and you can slip away in the meantime.”

Sansa tapped her fingers together. “As a Court Fool, Ser Dontos is certain to be at the wedding to guide me to the ship or the carriage or wherever I am meant to be. But what a flimsy plan! Relying on me to wear a particular necklace to a wedding. How do they know that I’ll wear it? That I won’t wear a different necklace? That Tyrion won’t gift me a difference necklace on the morning of the wedding?”

Varys seemed amused by her anger. “They are trusting your good nature. What was it Ser Dontos asked you? To give his House one more chance in the sun? As a gentle, kind Lady, naturally they would think you would wear the necklace to the wedding. What better occasion to allow it to see it’s time in the sun?”

“By the Gods, they really do think I’m a simpering idiot don’t they?” asked Sansa. “I would hope they have a back up plan that doesn’t involve me wearing a specific bit of jewellery I haven’t even been technically told to wear to the wedding.”

“It depends whom they are wanting to kill.”

There was a short silence as both the spymaster and his apprentice’s minds raced through various options.

“What do you know of the seating plan for the wedding?” asked Sansa.

“The seating plan?”

“If they are smuggling poison in on my necklace I’m assuming it is meant for someone I will be sitting near. So where will I be sitting?”

Varys looked impressed. “Well reasoned. I’m not sure, but I am guessing at the head of the feast, along with the other members of the Royal Family and the senior Tyrells. You are the aunt of the King, after all, and a close friend of the bride.”

Sansa pulled a sheet of paper and a quill over. “So that would be me, Tyrion, Ser Jaime —”

“He may be serving as security, now he is Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, so may not necessarily be seated with the rest of the family.”

Sansa nodded. “Even without him, there is the Queen Regent, the Hand, the King, Margaery, Lord Tyrell, and Lady Tyrell.”

“And Prince Tommen.”

“And Prince Tommen,” agreed Sansa. She quickly counted. “Including Ser Jaime and myself, that’s ten people. I presume I am not meant to be poisoned, which leaves nine remaining. Of these nine, who would Littlefinger benefit the most from killing?”

“A good question, though there is one thing you have missed. What makes you think Littlefinger is acting alone in this matter? Or that it is for Littlefinger’s benefit?”

“The necklace came from Ser Dontos, and Littlefinger told me to watch for fools…”

“He is certainly involved, yes, but why. Whom else could he be working with?”

Sansa sighed. “Assuming the poison is meant for someone at the wedding, we have two mysteries and ten days to solve them. Who is Littlefinger working with, and whom is the target?”

 

* * *

 

Tyrion helped himself to the food that Pod offered. He was thrilled to see Jaime back, in _mostly_ one piece. Never one to beat around the bush, Tyrion decided to bait the lion in his lair.

“Your new hand. It’s much nicer than the old one. Wouldn’t you agree, Pod?”

Pod looked gloriously uncertain. “Is it solid gold, my lord?”

“Gilded steel, and I’m not a lord,” grumbled Jaime as he poked at the food on his plate.

“You’re not eating,” observed Tyrion. “Why is no one eating? My wife wastes away to nothing and my brother starves himself. You lost a hand, brother, not a stomach.” Jaime just looked at him, so Tyrion decided to try a different tactic. “Try the boar. Cersei can’t get enough of it since one killed Robert for her.”

Pod moved to offer Jaime a boar-meat sausage but Jaime waved him away.

Worried now, Tyrion hastily gulped his mouthful of wine and grabbed his goblet. “A toast! To the proud Lannister children. The dwarf, the cripple, and the mother of madness!”

That at least made Jaime react. He reached forward to grab the jug of wine on the table and knocked over his mostly full goblet with his gilded hand.

Pod leapt into action. “I’ll clean it.”

But Jaime only waved him away. “No, I’ll do it. Leave us.”

Tyrion stared after his departing squire, not such what he should do. This was _Jaime_. His brother. The only family member who had ever been kind to him. Tyrion’s heart hurt to see his brother like this. Tyrion didn’t mean the hand — he thought it was rather dashing, really, like a pirate in an old story — but his brother’s spirit. Just what had happened to Jaime since they’d last seen each other at Winterfell all those years ago? Jaime was a ghost, a whisper, the mere presence of what he once was. Jaime used to stride into a room, a glowing, prideful, golden lion; King of everything he surveyed.

But this man, this quiet, reduced man...Tyrion wasn’t sure what to make of him.

So he poured his wine on the table too. “It’s only wine,” said Tyrion in an attempt to comfort his brother.

Tyrion stood and moved around the table to refill Jaime’s goblet. Jaime caught his arm with his good hand and whispered “I can’t fight any more.”

“What about your left hand?”

Jaime shook his head. “I can hold a sword, but all my instincts are wrong. I keep wanting to move _this_ way not _that_ way, right into my opponent’s blade instead of away from it. How can I protect the King like that? I’d be cut down at the first opportunity.”

“You’re the Lord Commander now. Command. Let others do the fighting. When was the last time father used a sword?” asked Tyrion as he retook his seat.

“I’m not father. I’m the Kingslayer. When people find out I can’t even slay a pigeon…”

“Train, then. Learn to fight with your other hand.”

“With whom? You? Men talk. As soon as someone discovers I can’t fight, he’ll tell everyone.”

Tyrion sat back in his chair and wiped his face with a cloth. “You need a proper, discrete swordsman. As it happens, I have just the one.”

_After all, it wasn’t Bronn’s discretion that led to me discovering this activities with my wife. And if Bronn is spending his time training Jaime that will keep him away from Sansa..._

 

* * *

 

“From House Tyrell and the people of the Reach: Your Grace, it is my honour to present you with this wedding cup.” Lord Tyrell put the ugliest cup Sansa had ever seen on the table before Joffrey and straightened up. “May you and my daughter Margaery drink deep and live long.”

“A handsome goblet, my Lord,” said Joffrey. “Or should I call you father?”

“I should be honoured, Your Grace,” said Lord Tyrell as he bowed.

Once Lord Tyrell had retaken his seat, Pod came forward and placed a large book on the table. Tyrion got up to introduce their gift to the King.

“A book?” asked Joffrey in a bored tone.

“ _The Lives of Four Kings_ , Grand Maester Kaeth’s history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy and Daeron the Good. A book every king should read, and one of the last four copies written in Kaeth’s own hand.”

Joffrey shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and it looked like he wasn’t going to thank Tyrion for the gift. Sansa’s husband bowed stiffly and began to move back to his chair when Joffrey suddenly spoke.

“Now that the war is won, we should all find time for wisdom. Thank you, Uncle.”

Tyrion looked taken aback to be spoken to so softly by his nephew, and his eyes met Sansa’s. She gave a small shrug. _Joffrey is capable of courtly manners when he wishes,_ she thought. _It is too bad he does not wish more often._

Sansa noticed one of the nobles at a table further back in the garden was staring at her. She thought his name was Ser Rodan or something, but she’d never spoken to him as far as she knew. When he caught her eye he blushed and quickly looked back down at the table.

_How odd,_ thought Sansa. _Why would he blush to look at me?_

Sansa’s thought were interrupted as a member of the Kingsguard came marching up to the table, carrying a sword on proud display and presenting it to the King.

“One of only two Valyrian steel swords in the capital, Your Grace,” said Tywin as he stood and rested a hand on the back of Joffrey’s chair. “Freshly forged in your honour.”

Joffrey’s face clearly showed joy as he shoved his chair back and raced around the table to pick up the sword. It made a familiar ringing sound as it came free of its scabbard and Sansa...Sansa knew that sound.

“Do I want to know where your father got Valyrian steel to make that?” she asked Tyrion softly.

“My Lady…” he replied, equally as softly, confirming her guess.

_So that is what happened to Ice,_ Sansa thought. _But where’s the rest of it? And how did they find a blacksmith who knows how to work Valyrian steel?_

Joffrey was joyfully waving the sword around, heedless of Grand Maester Pycelle’s warnings about the sharpness of the steel. Suddenly, he spun and chopped the sword down, cleaving the thick _Lives of the Four Kings_ in half as if it was a pat of butter. Again and again and again Joffrey chopped at the book, sending pieces of paper fluttering in the air. The conversation and music at the gathering came to a halt as everyone stopped to watch the King destroying his uncle’s gift.

Joffrey sneered at Tyrion, then turned and addressed the crowd. “Such a great sword should have a name! What shall I call her?”

“Stormbringer!” “Wolf’s Bane!” “Widow’s Wail!”

“Widow’s Wail, I like that!” called Joffrey. He turned back to the table and dropped his voice. “Everytime I use it, it will be like cutting off Ned Stark’s head all over again.”

Sansa could feel all eyes turn to face her but kept her face implacably calm. Tyrion reached for her hand under the table and squeezed it in support and she squeezed back. _He might have a mistress, but he is kind and supportive in his own way. A much better man than the King,_ she though as the King swaggered back to his chair. _Much better._

 

* * *

 

Later that day, Sansa joined Margaery and the Reachwomen at a small party for the bride-to-be. It promised to be a far more relaxed event than the breakfast that had been held in the King’s honour — at least, Sansa was fairly sure no rare books were going to be destroyed this time.

The Reachwomen each gave Margaery gifts, generally small things they’d made themselves, and drank wine and laughed. Eventually, the Reachwomen pulled Margaery to her feet and led her to a flat area in the garden. Sansa made to follow them but Lady Tyrell asked her to stay.

“Keep an old woman company, girl. Besides, that is a game for unmarried girls, not respectable wives.”

Sansa sat beside Lady Tyrell and poured the old woman another glass of wine while watching the Reachwomen blindfold a giggling Margaery.

“Are you looking forward to the wedding, Lady Sansa?”

“I am, Lady Tyrell. A Royal Wedding is always something to be celebrated, is it not? I am sure Lady Margaery will look even more stunning on the day than she already does. She truly will be a kind and gracious queen. You must be very proud of her.”

“I am indeed. Ever since she was little, Margaery has wanted to be the queen.”

“I wanted to be a queen when I was younger,” reminisced Sansa as she and Lady Tyrell watched the Reachwomen laughingly drape strings of flowers over Margaery, spinning her around as they did so and stealing kisses from the blindfolded bride-to-be. Sansa could see why Lady Tyrell referred to this as an unmarried girl’s game and had suggested they both sit it out. “I wanted to marry a dashing prince, like the ones I had read about in tales, and be his queen and have his babies.”

_Instead I was betrothed to a monster and married to an Imp. Really, I got the better part of that deal,_ thought Sansa.

“Are you sad that you didn’t marry Joffrey? That Margaery is going to be queen, not you?”

Sansa smiled. “No, my lady, I’m not. I have learned much since coming here. I am a slow learner, but I do learn. I’m not clever enough to be queen. Not kind enough, not gentle enough. Margaery has made King’s Landing a better place simply by being here. The charity she has shown the poor of the city, the joy and laughter her and her ladies have brought to the halls of the Red Keep...she will be a fine queen.”

“So you will not let jealousy cloud your friendship with my granddaughter?”

“No, Lady Tyrell. There is nothing to worry about.”

“Apart from the King,” commented Lady Tyrell in an undertone.

Sansa whipped her head around. “Lady Tyrell! You shouldn’t say things like that.”

Lady Tyrell waved her hand dismissively. “Pssh, I’ll say what I want. At my age I’ve earned the right to. And you said it yourself when we first met — he’s a monster. Nothing he’s done since I’ve come to King’s Landing has countered your claim. He truly is a vile little piece of work.”

“But he is the King. We must be loyal to him. Anything else is treason.”

“Some princes should never become kings,” murmured Lady Tyrell as the game the Reachwomen were playing came to an end.

And with that, everything clicked into place.


	12. Sweet Briar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Purple Wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from S04E02 ‘The Lion and the Rose’ and S07E07 ‘The Dragon and The Wolf’.
> 
> So this kinda descended into porn? Almost? Sansa is definitely 18 by now though guys.

The silence was somehow deafening. Varys ran his hands over his head, a gesture of clear distraction, as Sansa sat calmly in front of him.

“The King.”

“Yes,” said Sansa.

“You suspect Lady Tyrell?”

“Yes.”

“ _Why?_ ” asked Varys.

Sansa shrugged. “It just...it makes sense, my Lord. Look at the list of people who will be sitting at the table. It makes very little sense to poison most of them. But the King...poisoning the King makes sense. Especially if it is Lady Tyrell pulling the strings. What happens if the King dies?”

“Tommen becomes King.”

“A much, much easier boy to control. Oh, Lord Tywin will be the one actually ruling, but at least Tommen can be trusted to do what he’s told. Joffrey is too wild, too mad. We saw that yesterday, at his gifting breakfast. He can only hold the veneer of civility for so long then the madness takes hold. He’s unstable and monstrous.”

“Lord Tywin has him under control.”

“Does he?”

“I saw him send the King to bed without his supper only a few weeks ago.”

Sansa shrugged. “How much longer will that work? Joffrey is nineteen. He’s never had a firm hand, and he’ll only get worse as he ages. Tommen is fifteen; kind and sweet. He’ll do as Lord Tywin instructs. Tommen could even be a good King — give him a few years under Lord Tywin’s tutelage and he might almost make something of himself.”

“I never thought you’d be the one singing Lord Lannister’s praises,” remarked Varys.

“I do not like the man. I disagree with almost everything he’s done. The way he treats people, particularly his son, is monstrous. And I will never forgive him for what he did to my family. If I could tear him limb from limb, I would do so.” Sansa sighed. “But even I can admit he’s a far better Hand than my father was. My father was honest, and true. And it killed him. Tywin Lannister is a snake, and the Red Keep is a snake pit. If there needs to be someone pulling the King’s strings, the Kingdom could do a lot worse than Tywin Lannister. He’s ruthless, but after several years living in this cesspit I’ve realised ruthless is needed to survive here.”

Varys nodded. “So the most likely target is Joffrey. But why do you suspect Lady Tyrell? And why this timing?”

“What happens to Margaery if Joffrey lives?” countered Sansa. “Lady Tyrell loves Margaery, no one can deny that. The Tyrells want power. They want Margaery to be Queen. But they know full well how awful Joffrey can be. Tommen will be much easier for Margaery and Lady Tyrell to control. And much kinder to Margaery than Joffrey could ever consider. Can you imagine what would happen to Margaery on her wedding night to Joffrey? She’ll be lucky to make it out with all her limbs intact.”

Varys shook his head. “Surely he wouldn’t. Not his Queen.”

“He would, my Lord,” said Sansa firmly. “He’s threatened me enough times. Some of the things Margaery has told me about him when they are alone made me sick to the stomach. And you’ve heard the reports of what happens to the girls he takes to his chambers. By killing Joffrey at the wedding feast, the Lady Tyrell can secure Margaery as Queen and spare her the horror of her wedding night. They also position Margaery to be married to Tommen in Joffrey’s place. The Kingdom still needs the food the Tyrells are providing. The Lannisters still need this alliance.”

Varys got up and paced to the window. “If you are right, if the Tyrells are planning to kill the King at his own wedding feast...what should we do?”

“Nothing.”

Varys turned. “Nothing?”

Sansa nodded. “Joffrey is a monster, my Lord. Very few will mourn him truly. Tommen will be a much better King. I say we let events play out as they will. Let Joffrey die, let Tommen rule. It’s what’s best for the Kingdom. When you first took me on as your apprentice, you said that you don’t work for the Baratheons, or for the Lannisters. That you work for the good of the Realm. Joffrey dying is what’s best for the Realm.”

“You’ve become ruthless, Sansa,” said Varys proudly.

“I’ve had to be, my Lord. I’ve been in King’s Landing for too long to do elsewise,” said Sansa. “I imagine that during the confusion and panic over Joffrey’s death is when Ser Dontos will call me away from the wedding. I’ll disappear and likely be blamed for Joffrey’s death.”

“What reason will they have to blame you?”

“Other than my absence? I’m sure they’ll think of something. Lady Tyrell has already checked with me to ensure I am not jealous of Margaery’s marriage to the King. It won’t take much to spread word that after the death of my family at one wedding I’ve lost my wits and decided to kill the King at his. They may claim that I meant to kill Margaery out of jealousy, but killed Joffrey instead. It doesn’t really matter. I won’t be here to hear them brand me a murderess.”

“You’ll be in the Vale.”

“No, my Lord.” She reached into her skirts and withdrew an iron coin. “I’ll be in Braavos.”

 

* * *

 

The night before the wedding, Sansa made her way to Tyrion’s office. Sansa and Varys had been busy over the last few days, setting up plans and strategies. The Braavosi were not scheduled to leave King’s Landing until several days after the wedding since they were waiting for Lady Meredyth and Ferregi Antaryon to return, so Sansa was to disguise herself and hide in the city until they were ready to depart. Varys had a number of safe houses scattered through the city, and Sansa had chosen to hide in one near the Widow Dovesong’s house. Varys had expressed worry about her being on her own in the city, but as Sansa pointed out, she was eighteen now. She was of age, and moreover, knew how to wield both sword and bow. She was certain she would be fine.

Sansa had made sure she was asked to be part of the group of noblewomen who would dress Margaery on her wedding day, so Aly could pack up her belongings in peace. Some of Varys’ little birds would be smuggling her things to the safe house during the wedding.

“And what of Tyrion?” Varys had asked a few days ago.

“What of him?”

“You are just going to leave him, with no explanation?”

Sansa tossed her hair. “He’ll hardly notice. I’m sure his mistress will keep him company.”

“Your husband doesn’t have a mistress.”

“Yes he does.”

“No, my Lady, he doesn’t.” Varys sat beside her and took her hand. “I’ve had my little birds keep a close eye on him since you became my apprentice. They report that he has no lover. He spends his days in his office, working. Moreover, he’s only been to a brothel three times since you were married. Once to arrange for a Name Day present for Joffrey, once to collect the Crown’s books from Littlefinger, and finally to speak to Prince Oberyn.”

“But his father...his father said he had whores. Tyrion didn’t contradict him.”

“There is bad blood between Lord Tywin and his son, Sansa. You know this.”

“I do know this. But...Tywin seemed so certain,” said Sansa plaintively.

Varys patted her hand. “Tyrion has a reputation for being clever and lecherous. Without training in arms, his reputation became his sword and his shield. But I swear to you, Sansa, he has not been unfaithful to you.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he is my friend. One of my only friends. And over the last few months I’ve watched you two grow apart, and it’s pained me. Although your marriage isn’t one that I would have thought would thrive, for a while it did. You were happier. He was calmer. You were good to each other. I thought I was seeing a strong, stable relationship grow. And then, for reasons I don’t understand, you broke apart.”

“There are things you don’t understand?”

“It’s maddening!” exclaimed Varys. “Did you know neither your handmaiden nor Tyrion’s squire will talk? Neither will explain what happened to make your marriage falter as it has. How can I help you get together when I don’t even know what is wrong?”

“Why does it matter to you?” asked Sansa.

“Tyrion is my friend,” repeated Varys, “and you are my student. I care for you both. I thought that if you learned to love each other...Tyrion was lost before you came into his life. Since marrying you, he’s had more focus, more stability. He’d stopped drinking himself into an early grave. And you’ve bloomed as Lady Lannister. You’ve turned from a shy, uncertain girl to a clever and kind noble lady. Tyrion may not have been the match your family had ever thought you should have but you are good together.”

Sansa was silent for several breaths. “When he tried to break my betrothal to Joffrey, Father said he would make me a match with someone who was worthy of me. Someone brave, gentle and kind. And for a while, I did indeed think that Tyrion was that man.”

“What changed?”

“He lied to me about Arya.”

Varys looked puzzled. “Your sister? She hasn’t been seen since your father was killed.”

Sansa shook her head. “Littlefinger told me he’d seen Arya at Harrenhal. If she was at Harrenhal, she was with the Lannister army. Why did Tyrion not tell me she’d been found? And why have they not brought her back to King’s Landing?”

“My Lady, Sansa...this is the first I have heard of this. I am the Realm’s spymaster, and I swear to you, I have had no word of your sister. If she was at Harrenhal her existence was not made known to me. And it should have been. Leaving aside the matter of how on earth a young girl would have made her way to Harrenhal on her own, if she had been recognised she would have been brought to King’s Landing. You are a sizeable bargaining piece, my lady, but if at any point the Lannisters had your sister under their control also, they would have made it known.” Varys squeezed Sansa’s hands. “I’m sorry, my Lady, but I believe Littlefinger was lying. No one has seen your sister in years. None of my spies could find her, none of Pycelle’s, none of Lord Tywin’s. The fate of your sister has been much discussed in the Small Council and I can assure you — she has not been found.”

It had taken a bit more persuasion by Varys, but in the end, Sansa believed him. Arya was considered dead, and Tyrion had not been unfaithful. So tonight, on her last night in King’s Landing, Sansa wanted to apologise to her husband. To say goodbye to the man who had protected her and cared for her for the last few years, even if she hadn’t appreciated him at the time. She was sad, in a way, that they’d never had their wedding night. Everything she’d seen here in King’s Landing made her sure that Tyrion would have been a perfect gentleman. Maybe she could persuade him to come back to her chambers tonight...he was rather dashing, after all, even with the scar (as Margaery had correctly said all those months ago).

Even in her anger with him over the previous months, Sansa had still had moments where she’d been attracted to her husband. She’d sometimes woken from dreams in which he was kissing her, touching her, making love to her, and she’d hated herself for them. Hated for feeling this way for someone who she thought was lying to her — and hated herself for thinking of him rather than others when she’d slid her fingers down to touch herself after waking from those dreams if Tyrion was already up and about. Oh, she’d tried thinking of others, she really had. But every time she got close to completion, it was always Tyrion she pictured making her feel that way.

What was it he had said to her, back when they were first married? _In the dark, I am the Knight of Flowers_. Perhaps this night she would get to experience that for herself.

She knocked and let herself into his office. There were papers everywhere, and Tyrion had ink smeared on his cheek. He looked completely disheveled and bewildered, and didn’t look up from his papers when she came in.

“Pod, take these dockets to the chefs. I cannot believe they have waited this long to give me the bill for the wedding feast but here, it is signed, the monies have been released...you’re not Pod,” he said when he finally looked up and saw his wife, not his squire, standing in front of him.

“No, I’m not,” said Sansa as she moved some books and took a seat. “Are you well, husband?”

“Yes?” said Tyrion, though he sounded uncertain. “It seems that everyone has decided they wish for their bills for the royal wedding to be settled tonight, so I am busy, but I am otherwise well.”

“It seems an age since we last saw each other.”

“We were together at breakfast,” said Tyrion as he fiddled with his quill.

“A breakfast at which we hardly said anything to each other,” countered Sansa. “I’m sorry, Tyrion. Things were going so well and then...I let myself be led astray. I’ve wronged you, and I hope you will forgive me.”

“Sansa…” Sansa smiled hopefully but Tyrion shook his head. “What has brought this on?”

“The wedding tomorrow. It’s the start of something new. I thought maybe...maybe you and I could use this as a chance to start again.” With that, Sansa stood and made her way around the desk. “I know you are busy tonight, my Lord, so I will go. I just wanted to let you know I am sorry. That I wish things could have been different between us.”

She ducked her head down and kissed Tyrion on the lips, softly, carefully. It was the only way she could think of to apologise to him. To her kind, gentle husband who she now realised she cared for, but who she would be leaving tomorrow. Because not even for her husband would she stay in King’s Landing one minute more than she had to.

“Sansa…” he said as he caught her hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of it. “I think we need to talk. This is...sudden.”

Sansa nodded. “You’re right, Tyrion. We do need to talk. Come back to my chambers — our chambers. I’ll get Aly to bring us some wine, some honeyed figs —”

She was interrupted by Pod coming through the door. “Apologies, my Lord, but the King’s clothier is demanding payment tonight or he will not release the King’s clothing for tomor-”

Pod stopped dead at seeing Sansa and Tyrion holding hands.

“Wine and honeyed figs sounds lovely, my Lady, but there is work yet to do tonight for the Master of Coin.” He gently kissed the back of her hand. “Sleep well tonight, my wife. We shall talk tomorrow, after the wedding. My father is hoping to convince Prince Oberyn to take on the mantle of Master of Laws, which should halve my workload. Things will be calmer then. We could perhaps take a trip somewhere, together. Take some time for ourselves. Talk.” He gently pulled her down and kissed her on the lips, just as softly as she’d kissed him. “After the wedding.”

Sansa searched his eyes and saw what she hoped was desire. He wasn’t the man she’d dreamed of as a young girl, but he was the man she dreamed of now. She’d missed her husband, and was finally ready after three years of marriage to admit to herself that yes, she did desire him. She trusted him, felt safe with him. Sansa knew Tyrion would never hurt her, and after listening to the whispers of the Westerladies and Reachwomen about how good it could feel to be with a man...Sansa was ready to make love to her husband. There had been times when they were still sharing a bed before her anger had gotten in the way that she had been tempted to reach for him, to touch him and explore him. Tyrion was kind. He was gentle. And she loved him. If only she could tempt him away from his work…

But she was not a temptress. And he was honourable, and loyal, and dedicated. She knew he would continue to work until the work was done. It was his way, for all of his bluff and bluster about being a dilettante. So she moved in to give him another kiss, a farewell kiss. She tried to pour her feelings into the kiss, to let him know how she felt. That she loved him. That she desired him. That she was sorry.

He held her hand tightly and returned the kiss. Sansa didn’t know it could feel like this. She felt warm inside, and felt her nethers start to tingle, her nipples start to tighten… _so this is desire. This is lust. Seven hells…_ she thought to herself as she moved closer to Tyrion, grasping his hair in her hand as he cupped his hand around the back of her neck, their other hands still held tightly. He angled their faces and the kiss deepened and Sansa stumbled, nearly falling into his lap.

The sound of the door closing brought them to their senses. They looked up to see that Pod had left the room, presumably to give them privacy. But the bills the squire had carried into the room were sitting on the desk. Tyrion still had work to do.

“Are you quite sure you don’t want to come to our chambers tonight, my Lord?”

Tyrion groaned and pulled Sansa into his lap, letting go of her hand so he could slip a hand around her waist. He brushed her hair to one side with the other hand and moved his lips up her neck, which made Sansa groan and squirm. “My Lady...there is nothing more that I would like to do. I have wanted this, so long...but I must do my duty. I am sorry. I am likely to be here for many hours more.”

Sansa huffed and turned to face him. “Are you secretly a Tully, Tyrion? To value family, duty and honour so?”

He caught her lips again in a passionate kiss. “No, Sansa, I am a Lannister. Never doubt that.”

“So soon I shall hear you roar?”

Tyrion gaped at her. “...did you just turn my family’s words into a double entendre? Who are you, and what happened to the sweet, innocent girl I married?”

Sansa laughed, and kissed his neck. If it had felt good when he’d done it to her, she was sure it would feel good for him too. She could feel a hardness pressing into her from his lap and was fairly sure it wasn’t something in his pocket. “She grew up.”

She trailed her lips up his neck and gently nibbled at his earlobe. Sansa hadn’t believed Lady Alysanne when she’d said Ser Addam enjoyed that, but it seemed her friend hadn’t done her wrong. Tyrion groaned and his grip tightened on her.

“Sansa...if you don’t stop…”

With some effort she pulled back from him. “You are determined, Tyrion?”

He leaned forward and kissed her again, softly this time. “I am, my wife. I am sorry, but there are things I need to do tonight so tomorrow goes off without a hitch.”

“But what if tomorrow doesn’t go according to plan? What if something happens?”

He shook his head and stroked his hands up her sides. “Everything will be fine tomorrow, you’ll see. Between Jaime, Lady Tyrell, and myself everything is well in hand. It will be a long day, but at the end of it, I can accompany you back to our chambers and we can...talk.”

Sansa could see resolve warring with desire in his eyes, and knew that she would not be able to tempt him away from his work this evening. For a second she wondered if she should confess everything. Tell him that his nephew was likely to be dead within the day, that she was going to be framed for the murder, that she was going to run to Braavos. _If I told him everything, would he stop me? Would he help me? Or would he come with me?_

She pulled back and looked at him. Saw the Lannister features stamped on his face, the ink now even more smeared on his cheek. She knew if she looked at her own hand she’d see a matching smear there.

But she also looked into his heart, and she _knew_ him. Even after all their misunderstandings, they’d been married for several years by now and she knew him. She knew he would never leave his family. Knew his loyalty and decentness would triumph in the end, and that if she told him what was going to happen tomorrow he’d try and stop it.

And she didn’t want him to try and stop it. She had plans that were set to spring into motion the second Joffrey died. She didn’t want her work to go to waste.

Moreover, she didn’t want _herself_ to go to waste. She’d worked hard here in King’s Landing, learning lessons on how to collect and wield secrets from Varys and how to wield more physical weapons from Chella and Inigo. She’d woven tight bonds between the Reachwomen and the Westerladies, and the Braavosi considered her a brilliant young woman. But here in King’s Landing her choices, her board, were limited. Tywin and Cersei would block anything she tried, still seeing her as a silly little girl. A pawn in their games.

Sansa wasn’t a pawn. Not any more. She refused to be one ever again. Which meant she had to leave, had to learn and grow away from here. Grow in power and influence and cunning, so she could return to King’s Landing and crush Cersei beneath her as Cersei had once tried to crush her.

Unbidden, the memory of her father crossed her mind. _Winter is coming. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies. But the pack survives._ Sansa knew then that she couldn’t tell Tyrion. That the events of tomorrow meant walking away from her husband, from one of the few people to ever show her genuine kindness in this place. And she knew that she would do it. King’s Landing was nothing more than an elaborate cage for Sansa, and if freeing herself from it would break her husband’s heart, well, that was a price she was willing to pay.

But if he wanted to join her for one final night, she wouldn’t say no.

“Very well, Tyrion. I will leave you to your work.” She leaned forward and took his lips in a passionate kiss, her hands fisted in his hair and her nails lightly scraping his scalp. “But if you finish your work early, my husband...you remember where our chambers are.”

She slid from his lap and shook out her skirts. She felt rumpled, flustered...and powerful, as she spied the effect she’d had on her husband.

“Sansa, I will work as fast as I can. I have never wanted a wedding to be over half as much as I want this one to be over.”

Sansa ducked her head down for one last kiss. “Goodbye, Tyrion,” she said as she straightened and left his office.

She found Pod standing guard down the hall, far enough away that he shouldn’t have been able to hear anything through the thick door of Tyrion’s office but near enough to intercept anyone else who wanted to interrupt his master. “My Lady? Is something the matter?”

Sansa smiled. “Only that someone has delivered a rather large pile of work on my husband’s desk for him to go through tonight, stopping me from stealing him away.” On impulse, she hugged Pod, who froze in response. “Thank you, Pod. Thank you for being such a good squire to my husband.”

She drew away and patted him on the cheek before continuing on to her chambers, leaving a very confused young man standing in the hallway.

 

* * *

 

The Great Sept was certainly more crowded than it had been for his wedding, Tyrion noticed. It seemed like all of King’s Landing was decked out in their finery as the royal procession travelled from the Red Keep to the Sept, banners and flags flapping in the wind. As Margaery was escorted down the aisle by her beaming father, Tyrion felt Sansa reach for his hand and squeeze it. He looked up at her and his wife smiled with happiness.

He hadn’t made it to their chamber last night. He’d fallen asleep over the account books and had rushed to get himself ready for the wedding, barely making it into the carriage with his family. He and Sansa hadn’t had a moment to themselves yet today, but Tyrion was hopeful that tonight would change all of that.

 _I’m not sure what has driven Sansa out of Bronn’s arms and back to me, but by the Gods I’m grateful. Maybe training Jaime is taking up too much of Bronn’s time, and he can’t pleasure Sansa as much as she wants. If it must fall to me to keep my young wife sated and in bed, well, this is one duty I will not shirk._ He remembered the feeling of her in his lap, the taste of her skin under his lips, the feeling of her teeth on his earlobe...and immediately tried to picture anything else. _The Great Sept of Baelor is no place to get an erection!_ he scolded himself.

“Margaery’s dress is stunning,” he whispered to Sansa, the light glinting on the torque he had given her on the very first day of their marriage that was wrapped around her neck.

“I had nothing to do with it, I’m afraid,” she whispered back. “Though I did help with her hair this morning.”

“It is beautiful, Sansa. You must be proud.”

As Margaery climbed the first set of steps, her father released her arm and bowed low, then moved to stand with his mother as Margaery took the arm of the King. Margaery and Joffrey only had eyes for each other, and Tyrion found himself hoping that this marriage would work. That Margaery’s kindness would balance Joffrey’s temper. That being married to a sweet girl like Margaery would help turn Joffrey from a petulant child to a decent man. _After all, being married to Sansa has done wonders to my fortune, even if we have been estranged recently._

When the reached the top of the stairs, Joffrey swept off his cloak and dramatically placed it around Margaery’s shoulders. It was the way it was meant to be done, but for Tyrion it lacked the sweetness of how Sansa had received his cloak, kneeling piously before the Septon. _Did I ever thank her for how elegantly she handled that? For how graceful she made the entire process after Joffrey took away my footstool? I should thank her for that. Repeatedly. Perhaps this time I should be the one kneeling…_ He forced himself to picture Lady Tyrell naked in an attempt to stop imagining himself kneeling between Sansa’s thighs, delving his tongue into her as she moaned and squirmed above him.

He wasn’t very successful at shifting his focus from how he planned to worship his wife, and it was lucky that his tunic was rather long on him. It was with half a mind that Tyrion paid attention to the wedding ceremony, too busy thinking of all the things he wanted to do to Sansa now that she had invited him to her bed. _We should talk. I know we should talk. But dammit I don’t know if talking is on the cards tonight. Moaning, gasping and sighing, yes, but not talking._

He was so distracted by thoughts of what he could do with Sansa this evening that Tyrion only realised the wedding had finished when the crowd began to clap.

“We have a new queen,” said Sansa.

“Better her than you,” replied Tyrion as they made their way out of the Sept. Maybe they could sneak away for a few moments, become better acquainted…

But no. There was no chance. Sansa got swept up into the women surrounding Margaery and offering their congratulations, while Tyrion was dragged along by his father to congratulate Joffrey.

 _Maybe it’s for the best,_ he mused, watching the sun play over Sansa’s hair as she hugged Margaery tightly. _Even if she has been with Bronn, I want to take my time with her. Take her to pieces over and over so all memory of him is erased, so I’m the only one she wants ever again._ Tyrion burned with a fierce desire to use all of his skills to please Sansa, to ensure she never left his bed for another. It had been years since he’d been with a woman. He wanted to put all his pent-up passion to good use, seducing and thoroughly fucking his wife tonight.

 _Maybe we’ll have a child within the year after all._ The thought made Tyrion pause slightly. _Maybe she’s already with child. Maybe Sansa only wants to sleep with me to provide legitimacy for her child by Bronn._ At that moment, Sansa turned from her embrace with Margaery and caught Tyrion’s gaze with her own. Her smile softened from one of glee for her friend to something gentler, private; a smile just for him. _No, Sansa wouldn’t do that. She’s Ned Stark’s daughter and far too honourable for that. I’m not sure why she has finally decided she wants me, but she does. I will not squander this._ He tried to ignore the little voice in the back of his head pointing out that the honourable Ned Stark had famously had a bastard of his own.

 

* * *

 

Sansa sat mortified as the dwarves took their bows. She noticed that neither Lady Tyrell nor Queen Margaery had joined in the applause, both of them watching the _spectacle_ with carefully blank faces. Sansa looked around the audience and noticed that a number of the other guests also weren’t clapping, including that knight who had blushed when she’d looked at him at Joffrey’s gifting breakfast.

 _Seven Hells, Joffrey’s turning his wedding into a mockery of us all. Maybe I should have worn the necklace after all,_ she thought. _No. I made the right decision. I have done nothing to prevent the King’s death, but I also will not wear the means of his death around my neck._

Sansa had noticed that Lady Tyrell was wearing a heavy ring today, very unlike her usual style. Sansa wondered if that was Lady Tyrell’s backup plan.

She was pulled out of her thoughts as the King rose to speak. “Well fought, well fought! Here you are, the champions purse. Though, you’re not the champion yet, are you? A true champion defeats all that challenge us. Surely there are others out there who still dare to challenge my reign? Uncle? How about you, I’m sure they have a spare costume.”

Sansa could feel Tyrion start to bristle, and she laid her hand on his thigh under the table to try and still him.

“One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace,” said Tyrion, placing his own hand on top of Sansa’s and interlacing their fingers. “I would like to keep what remains of my face, and I’m sure my wife would like that too.”

There were chuckles throughout the audience, and Sansa smiled at Tyrion as he turned her hand over and squeezed it gently. They looked up and dropped their hands when they heard a scrape from where Joffrey had been standing.

“You dare deny me on my wedding day?” snarled Joffrey as he stalked towards them. “I am the King. If I order you to fight, you will fight. Or are you nothing more than a wet, sniveling coward?”

With that, Joffrey poured his wine over Tyrion’s head. Tyrion swiped some of the wine off his cheek as Sansa sent a beseeching look at Margaery.

“A fine vintage,” commented Tyrion. “A shame that it spilled.”

“It did not spill,” spat Joffrey.

Anything further he was about to say was cut off by Margaery. “My love, come back to me,” the Queen called as she extended her arm. “It’s time for my father’s toast.”

The dwarves turned and re-entered the Lion’s Head, leaving the stage free for Mace Tyrell who had begun to rise from his chair due to his mother’s prodding.

“But how does he expect me to toast with no wine?” asked Joffrey as he walked back to Margaery. “Uncle. You can be my cupbearer.”

Tyrion stood with a bow. “Your Grace does me a great honour.”

“It’s not meant to be a honour,” ground Joffrey through gritted teeth. The look on his face was similar to how he’d looked when he’d ordered Sansa stripped and beaten in the Throne Room all those years ago and Sansa found herself praying to any god she could think of. Praying that she and Tyrion would both get out of this feast alive.

Slowly, Tyrion brushed past her and rounded the table. Sansa tried to smile reassuringly, but she wasn’t sure she’d succeeded. Just as Tyrion reached the King and was about to take his cup, Joffrey let the cup fall. It hit the ground with a ringing noise and rolled under the table. Tyrion bent to pick it up and Joffrey kicked it down the table, towards where Sansa was sitting. She put her foot out to stop it, and bent down under the table to grab it.

“Just...do what he says, Tyrion,” she whispered as she passed him the cup under the table. “Make yourself small, and don’t fight back. It’s the only way to survive when he’s like this.”

Tyrion’s eyes held such sadness at that moment that Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. They backed out from under the table, Sansa to retake her seat and Tyrion to hand the cup to the King.

Joffrey refused to take the cup, however. “What good is an empty cup?” he sneered. “Fill it.”

Still dripping with wine himself, Tyrion grabbed the bottle of wine sitting in front of Cersei and poured it into Joffrey’s cup. He offered it to Joffrey and Sansa could clearly see the shame on his face and how his nephew was embarrassing him.

Again, Joffrey refused to take the cup. “Kneel,” he said. “Kneel before your King.” When Tyrion didn’t move, Joffrey said it again. “Kneel, or I will cut you off at the knees.”

Before he could follow through on his actions, Margaery leapt to her feet. “Look! The pie!”

The murmurs and applause from the crowd helped break the tension. It was a large pie, needing four men to carry it in and place it in front of the Royal dias.

Joffrey at last accepted the cup and drank deeply from it, handing it to Margaery as he finished. “My Queen,” he said, drawing his sword to slice through the pie.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Margaery place the cup down on the end of the table nearest Lady Tyrell. She turned her head to watch Lady Tyrell more fully as Joffrey swung his sword and sliced open the pie, leaping back in surprise as live doves flew out to applause from the audience.

As Queen Margaery congratulated Joffrey on his heroic slicing of the pie and everyone was distracted by the doves, Sansa saw Lady Tyrell briefly wave her hand over the cup. Her hand that was displaying a suspiciously large ring.

Handmaidens came rushing forward to serve pre-sliced pie to Joffrey and Margaery while the rest of the crowd took their seats.

Margaery fed Joffrey several bites of the pie, but Joffrey paused after swallowing it. “This pie is dry,” he said. “Cupbearer! This pie is dry. Bring me my wine.”

Tyrion bowed his head but did as he was told. Sansa began to edge her way out of her seat.

Joffrey drank deeply. “Mm, good. It needed washing down.”

Tyrion walked back towards Sansa and halted when he saw she’d stepped off the dias. His brow furrowed in obvious confusion and Sansa shook her head slightly. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed, as the King began to cough.

And kept coughing.

Tyrion turned away from Sansa and approached the King. “Your Grace. Are you well?”

Sansa stood, frozen and unable to look away, as Joffrey drank deeply again. “It’s nothing, just the pie.”

But drinking didn’t seem to help, as Joffrey’s breath came in short gasps.

“He’s choking!” cried Queen Margaery.

“Someone help the poor boy!” yelled Lady Tyrell as courtiers jumped to their feet and Grand Maester Pycelle began to shuffle to the dias. “Idiots, help your king!”

Joffrey fell from the dias, still choking, as Jaime Lannister pushed through the watching crowd. “Out of my way!”

Joffrey threw up but kept choking as Cersei shoved Margaery to one side and fell to her knees beside Joffrey.

“Joffrey, Joffrey!” Cersei cried as she turned her son over.

Sansa smelled the strong scent of wine and heard Ser Dontos’ voice behind her. “Come with me. If you want to live, you have to come with me.”

As she turned away from the horror unfolding in front of her, Sansa saw Joffrey extend his arm to where Tyrion was carefully picking up Joffrey’s cup.

Sansa didn’t see Joffrey die. But she heard Cersei’s wails turn to screams as she fled after Ser Dontos down the path, and knew that Joffrey was dead.

The King was dead. Long live the King.


	13. Epilogue

Later that night, Olenna watched as Margaery slid into a fitful sleep, aided by some essence of Nightshade.

 _It was a messy business, but a necessary one,_ she thought to herself. It had been a long, but ultimately successful day, and Olenna was looking forward to a warm poultice for her aching feet and then her bed. Her old bones weren’t quite what they one were, though she prided herself on having a still sharp mind.

_Tommen will be a far better match. I’ll have to talk to Margaery when she awakes, remind her that she still has options. Will still be Queen._

Olenna entered her rooms to find the hot poultice and her favourite handmaiden, Rosalie, waiting for her.

“A terrible business, Rosalie, a terrible business.”

“Yes ma’am,” said the maid as she helped Olenna out of her finery and into a chair before the fire. “I have had a look at what you brought with you to King’s Landing and you have enough clothes that we should be able to have you properly dressed in full mourning tomorrow. We will have to make do for a few days until more can be made, but House Tyrell will be properly attired tomorrow.”

Olenna patted her handmaiden’s hand. “This is why you are my favourite, Rosalie. You have a clever mind, girl. I’m half tempted to leave you here to serve Margaery.”

Rosalie’s nose crinkled. “I’d rather return to Highgarden, if I may Lady Tyrell. I miss my home.”

Olenna sighed in agreement. “As do I child, as do I. However thanks to this awful business it looks like we will be stuck here a while longer. The city has been sealed as they try to find Sansa Lannister. She went missing at the wedding just as the King died.”

“Sansa Lannister?”

“Yes. Sweet little drip of a thing. I can’t think she’d’ve had anything to do with the King’s death — probably bolted out of sheer fright, the little idiot.”

With a frown, Rosalie turned and picked up a small, neatly wrapped parcel that was sitting on Olenna’s desk.

“Her maid came by earlier ma’am.”

“Her maid?”

“Yes ma’am. They look so alike, for a moment I thought it was Lady Sansa herself. The maid left this for you. Said it was a gift from Lady Sansa in honour of Queen Margaery’s wedding. Lady Sansa didn’t want to take any attention away from Queen Margaery but wanted to honour the day you became one family, so she’d asked her maid to deliver this.”

Slowly, Olenna pulled on the ribbon and opened the parcel.

The parcel contained two things. A necklace of cheap purple stones, and a small scrap of paper that read _Winter is Coming_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Whooo! I have like, 3 further stories planned in this verse, so there will be a happy Sansa/Tyrion ending. Trust me.
> 
> I'm about to start a new job so I don't know how this is going to cut into my writing time, but I'm hoping to have the next story ready to post by the end of June. I hope you come back for the next installment :-)

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi at [Tumblr ](http://www.lbswasp.tumblr.com) :-)


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